Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

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JUL  7 


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«WTH 
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BWRL  NO 


JUST  DAVID 


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"JUST  DAVID' 


JUST    DAVI 


BY 


ELEANOR  H.   PORTER 


With  Illustrations  by 
Helen  Mason  Grose 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


72423 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  ELEANOR  R,  PORTER 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

rqit> 


I58TH    THOUSAND 


-ps 

3531 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
Mrs.  James  HartnUB 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME  .        .        .        1 

II.  THE  TRAIL          ......      13 

III.  THE  VALLEY      ......      28 

«K 

IV.  TWO   LETTERS  .....      40 
^ 

V.  DISCORDS  ......      57 

VI.  NUISANCES,  NECESSARY  AND  OTHER 

WISE        .......     72 

VII  .  YOU  'RE  WANTED  —  YOU  *RE  WANTED     89 

\ 

vni.  THE  PUZZLING  "DOS"  AND"  DON'TS"  102 


> 


IX.  JOE       ........    116 

X.  THE   LADY  OF  THE  ROSES    .         .         .131 

XI.  JACK  AND   JILL         .....    145 

XII.  ANSWERS    THAT    DID    NOT    ANSWER    155 

XIII.  A   SURPRISE   FOR  MR.   ...JK.         .        .    163 

XIV.  THE  TOWER  WINDOW    .         .         .         .176 
XV.  SECRETS      .....         .         .187 

xvi.  DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN         .      .  199 

xvii.  "THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER"  210 

XVIII.  DAVID   TO  THE   RESCUE          .         .         .   225 

vii 


CONTENTS 

XIX.  THE   UNBEAUTIFUL  WORLD  .         .   241 

XX.  THE   UNFAMILIAR  WAY          .         .         .252 

XXI.  HEAVY  HEARTS 264 

XXII.  AS   PERRY   SAW   IT  ....   274 

XXIII.  PUZZLES 284 

XXIV.  A   STORY   REMODELED    ....   298 
XXV.  THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD  .  308 


JUST  DAVID 


JUST  DAVID 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

FAR  up  on  the  mountain-side  the  little  shack 
stood  alone  in  the  clearing.  It  was  roughly  yet 
warmly  built.  Behind  it  jagged  cliffs  broke  the 
north  wind,  and  towered  gray-white  in  the  sun 
shine.  Before  it  a  tiny  expanse  of  green  sloped 
gently  away  to  the  point  where  the  mountain 
dropped  in  another  sharp  descent,  wooded  with 
scrubby  firs  and  pines.  At  the  left  a  footpath 
led  into  the  cool  depths  of  the  forest.  But  at  the 
right  the  mountain  fell  away  again  and  dis 
closed  to  view  the  picture  David  loved  the  best 
of  all:  the  far-reaching  valley;  the  silver  pool 
of  the  lake  with  its  ribbon  of  a  river  flung  far 
out;  and  above  it  the  grays  and  greens  and 
purples  of  the  mountains  that  climbed  one 
upon  another's  shoulders  until  the  topmost 
thrust  their  heads  into  the  wide  dome  of  the 
sky  itself. 


JUST  DAVID 

There  was  no  road,  apparently,  leading  away 
from  the  cabin.  There  was  only  the  footpath 
that  disappeared  into  the  forest.  Neither,  any 
where,  was  there  a  house  in  sight  nearer  than 
th^j  white  specks  far  down  in  the  valley  by  the 
river. 

Within  the  shack  a  wide  fireplace  dominated 
one  side  of  the  main  room.  It  was  June  now, 
and  the  ashes  lay  cold  on  the  hearth;  but  from 
the  tiny  lean-to  in  the  rear  came  the  smell  and 
the  sputter  of  bacon  sizzling  over  a  blaze.  The 
furnishings  of  the  room  were  simple,  yet,  in  a 
way,  out  of  the  common.  There  were  two 
bunks,  a  few  rude  but  comfortable  chairs,  a 
table,  two  music-racks,  two  violins  with  their 
cases,  and  everywhere  books,  and  scattered 
sheets  of  music.  Nowhere  was  there  cushion, 
curtain,  or  knickknack  that  told  of  a  woman's 
taste  or  touch.  On  the  other  hand,  neither  was 
there  anywhere  gun,  pelt,  or  antlered  head  that 
spoke  of  a  man's  strength  and  skill.  For  deco 
ration  there  were  a  beautiful  copy  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna,  several  photographs  signed  with 
names  well  known  out  in  the  great  world  be 
yond  the  mountains,  and  a  festoon  of  pine 
cooes  such  as  a  child  might  gather  and  hang. 

a 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

From  the  little  lean-to  kitchen  the  sound  of 
the  sputtering  suddenly  ceased,  and  at  the  door 
appeared  a  pair  of  dark,  wistful  eyes. 

"Daddy!"  called  the  owner  of  the  eyes. , 

There  was  no  answer. 

j  "Father,  are  you  there?"  called  the  voice, 
more  insistently. 

From  one  of  the  bunks  came  a  slight  stir  and 
a  murmured  word.  At  the  sound  the  boy  at  the 
door  leaped  softly  into  the  room  and  hurried  to 
the  bunk  in  the  corner.  He  was  a  slender  lad 
with  short,  crisp  curls  at  his  ears,  and  the  red  of 
perfect  health  in  his  cheeks.  His  hands,  slim, 
long,  and  with  tapering  fingers  like  a  girl's, 
reached  forward  eagerly. 

"Daddy,  come!  I've  done  the  bacon  all  my 
self,  and  the  potatoes  and  the  coffee,  too. 
Quick,  it's  all  getting  cold!" 

Slowly,  with  the  aid  of  the  boy's  firm  hands, 
the  man  pulled  himself  half  to  a  sitting  pos 
ture.  His  cheeks,  like  the  boy's,  were  red — • 
but  not  with  health.  His  eyes  were  a  little  wild, 
but  his  voice  was  low  and  very  tender,  like  a 
caress. 

"David  —  it's  my  little  son  David!" 

"Of  course  it's  David!  Who  else  should  it 
3 


JUST  DAVID 

be?"  laughed  the  boy.  "Come!"  And  he 
tugged  at  the  man's  hands. 

The  man  rose  then,  unsteadily,  and  by  sheer 
will  forced  himself  to  stand  upright.  The  wild 
look  left  his  eyes,  and  the  flush  his  cheeks.  His 
face  looked  suddenly  old  and  haggard.  Yet 
with  fairly  sure  steps  he  crossed  the  room  and 
entered  the  little  kitchen. 

Half  of  the  bacon  was  black;  the  other  half 
was  transparent  and  like  tough  jelly.  The  po 
tatoes  were  soggy,  and  had  the  unmistakable 
taste  that  comes  from  a  dish  that  has  boiled 
dry.  The  coffee  was  lukewarm  and  muddy. 
Even  the  milk  was  sour. 

David  laughed  a  little  ruefully. 

"Things  are  n't  so  nice  as  yours,  father,"  he 
apologized.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  nothing  but  a 
discord  in  that  orchestra  to-day!  Somehow, 
some  of  the  stove  was  hotter  than  the  rest,  and 
burnt  up  the  bacon  in  spots ;  and  all  the  water 
got  out  of  the  potatoes,  too,  —  though  thai 
did  n't  matter,  for  I  just  put  more  cold  in.  I 
forgot  and  left  the  milk  in  the  sun,  and  it  tastes 
bad  now;  but  I'm  sure  next  time  it'll  be  better 

-  all  of  it." 

The  man  smiled,  but  he  shook  his  head  sadly. 
4 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

"But  there  ought  not  to  be  any  'next  time,' 
David." 

"Why  not?  What  do  you  mean?  Aren't 
you  ever  going  to  let  me  try  again,  father?" 
There  was  real  distress  in  the  boy's  voice. 

The  man  hesitated.  His  lips  parted  with  an 
indrawn  breath,  as  if  behind  them  lay  a  rush 
of  words.  But  they  closed  abruptly,  the  words 
still  unsaid.  Then,  very  lightly,  came  these 
others:  — 

"Well,  son,  this  is  n't  a  very  nice  way  to 
treat  your  supper,  is  it?  Now,  if  you  please,  I  '11 
take  some  of  that  bacon.  I  think  I  feel  my  ap 
petite  coming  back." 

If  the  truant  appetite  "came  back,"  how 
ever,  it  could  not  have  stayed;  for  the  man  ate 
but  little.  He  frowned,  too,  as  he  saw  how  little 
the  boy  ate.  He  sat  silent  while  his  son  cleared 
the  food  and  dishes  away,  and  he  was  still  si 
lent  when,  with  the  boy,  he  passed  out  of  the 
house  and  walked  to  the  little  bench  facing  the 
west. 

Unless  it  stormed  very  hard,  David  never 
went  to  bed  without  this  last  look  at  his  "  Silver 
Lake,"  as  he  called  the  little  sheet  of  water  far 
down  in  the  valley. 

5 


JUST  DAVID 

"Daddy,  it's  gold  to-night  —  all  gold  witl 
the  sun!"  he  cried  rapturously,  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  his  treasure.  " Oh,  daddy!" 

';  It  was  a  long-drawn  cry  of  ecstasy,  and  hear-| 
ing  it,  the  man  winced,  as  with  sudden  pain. 

<K  'Daddy,  I'm  going  to  play  it  —  I've  got  to  I 
play  it!"  cried  the  boy,  bounding  toward  the 
cabin.  In  a  moment  he  had  returned,  violin  at 
his  chin. 

The  man  watched  and  listened;  and  as  he 
watched  and  listened,  his  face  became  a  battle 
ground  whereon  pride  and  fear,  hope  and  de 
spair,  joy  and  sorrow,  fought  for  the  mastery. 

It  was  no  new  thing  for  David  to  "play"  the 
sunset.  Always,  when  he  was  moved,  David 
turned  to  his  violin.  Always  in  its  quivering 
strings  he  found  the  means  to  say  that  which 
his  tongue  could  not  express. 

Across  the  valley  the  grays  and  blues  of  the 
mountains  had  become  all  purples  now.  Above, 
the  sky  in  one  vast  flame  of  crimson  and  gold, 
was  a  molten  sea  on  which  floated  rose-pink 
cloud-boats.  Below,"  the  valley  with  its  lake 
and  river  picked  out  in  rose  and  gold  against 
the  shadowy  greens  of  field  and  forest,  seemed 
like  some  enchanted  fairyland  of  loveliness. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

And  all  this  was  in  David's  violin,  and  all  this1, 
too,  was  on  David's  uplifted,  rapturous  face. 

As  the  last  rose-glow  turned  to  gray  and  the 
last  strain  quivered  into  silence,  the  man  spoke. 
His  voice  was  almost  harsh  with  self-control. 

"David,  the  time  has  come.  We'll  have  to 
give  it  up  —  you  and  I." 

The  boy  turned  wonderingly,  his  face  still 
softly  luminous. 

"Give  what  up?" 

"This  — all  this." 

"This!  Why,  father,  what  do  you  mean? 
This  is  home!" 

The  man  nodded  wearily. 

"  I  know.  It  has  been  home;  but,  David,  you 
did  n't  think  we  could  always  live  here,  like 
this,  did  you?" 

David  laughed  softly,  and  turned  his  eyes 
once  more  to  the  distant  sky-line. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  dreamily.  "What 
better  place  could  there  be?  /  like  it,  daddy." 

The  man  drew  a  troubled  breath,  and  stirred 
restlessly.  The  teasing  pain  in  his  side  was  very 
bad  to-night,  and  no  change  of  position  eased 
it,  He  was  ill,  very  ill;  and  he  knew  it.  Yet  he 
also  knew  that,  to  David,  sickness,  pain,  and 


JUST  DAVID 

death  meant  nothing  —  or,  at  most,  words  that 
had  always  been  lightly,  almost  unconsciously 
passed  over.  For  the  first  time  he  wondered  if, 
after  all,  his  training  —  some  of  it  —  had  been 
wise.  v 

For  six  years  he  had  had  the  boy  under  his  ) 
exclusive  care  and  guidance.  For  six  years  the 
boy  had  eaten  the  food,  worn  the  clothing,  and 
studied  the  books  of  his  father's  choosing.  For 
six  years  that  father  had  thought,  planned, 
breathed,  moved,  lived  for  his  son.  There  had 
been  no  others  in  the  little  cabin.  There  had 
been  only  the  occasional  trips  through  the 
woods  to  the  little  town  on  the  mountain-side 
for  food  and  clothing,  to  break  the  days  of  close 
companionship. 

All  this  the  man  had  planned  carefully.  He 

had  meant  that  only  the  good  and  beautiful 

.  should  have  place  in  David's  youth.    It  was 

not  that  he  intended  that  evil,  unhappiness, 

and  death  should  lack  definition,  only  defmite- 

--ness,  in  the  boy's  mind.    It  should  be  a  case 

where  the  good  and  the  beautiful  should  so  fill 

the  thoughts  that  there  would  be  no  room  for 

anything  else.   This  had  been  his  plan.   And 

thus  far  he  had  succeeded  —  succeeded  so  won- 

8 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

derfully  that  he  began  now,  in  the  face  of  his 
own  illness,  and  of  what  he  feared  would  come 
of  it,  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  that  planning. 

As  he  looked  at  the  boy's  rapt  face,  he  re° 
membered  David's  surprised  questioning  at  the 
first  dead  squirrel  he  had  found  in  the  woods. 
David  was  six  then. 

"Why,  daddy,  he's  asleep,  and  he  won't 
wake  up!"  he  had  cried.  Then,  after  a  gentle 
touch:  "And  he's  cold  —  oh,  so  cold!" 

The  father  had  hurried  his  son  away  at  the 
time,  and  had  evaded  his  questions;  and  David 
had  seemed  content.  But  the  next  day  the  boy 
had  gone  back  to  the  subject.  His  eyes  were 
wide  then,  and  a  little  frightened. 

"Father,  what  is  it  to  be  —  dead?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  David?" 

"The  boy  who  brings  the  milk  —  he  had  the 
squirrel  this  morning.  He  said  it  was  not 
asleep.  It  was  —  dead." 

"It  means  that  the  squirrel,  the  real  squirrel 
under  the  fur,  has  gone  away,  David." 

"Where?" 

"To  a  far  country,  perhaps." 

"Will  he  come  back?" 

"No." 

0 


JUST  DAVID 

"Did  he  want  to  go?" 

"We '11  hope  so." 

"But  he  left  his  —  his  fur  coat  behind  him. 
Did  n't  he  need  —  that?" 

"No,  or  he'd  have  taken  it  with  him." 

David  had  fallen  silent  at  this.  He  had  re 
mained  strangely  silent,  indeed,  for  some  days; 
then,  out  in  the  woods  with  his  father  one 
morning,  he  gave  a  joyous  shout.  He  was 
standing  by  the  ice-covered  brook,  and  looking 
at  a  little  black  hole  through  which  the  hurry 
ing  water  could  be  plainly  seen. 

"Daddy,  oh,  daddy,  I  know  now  how  it  is, 
about  being  —  dead." 

"Why  — David!" 

"It's  like  the  water  in  the  brook,  you  know; 
that 's  going  to  a  far  country,  and  it  is  n't 
coming  back.  And  it  leaves  its  little  cold  ice- 
coat  behind  it  just  as  the  squirrel  did,  too.  It 
doesn't  need  it.  It  can  go  without  it.  Don't 
you  see?  And  it 's  singing  —  listen !  —  it 's  sing 
ing  as  it  goes.  It  wants  to  go !" 

"Yes,  David."  And  David's  father  had 
sighed  with  relief  that  his  son  had  found  his 
own  explanation  of  the  mystery,  and  one  that 
satisfied. 

10 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME 

Later,  in  his  books,  David  found  death  again. 
It  was  a  man,  this  time.  The  boy  had  looked 
up  with  startled  eyes. 

"Do  people,  real  people,  like  you  and  me, 
be  dead,  father?  Do  they  go  to  a  far  country?'* 

"Yes,  son,  in  time  —  to  a  far  country  rulei 
over  by  a  great  and  good  King,  they  tell  us." 

David's  father  had  trembled  as  he  said  it, 
and  had  waited  fearfully  for  the  result.  But 
David  had  only  smiled  happily  as  he  answered : 

"But  they  go  singing,  father,  like  the  little 
brook.  You  know  I  heard  it!" 

And  there  the  matter  had  ended.  David  was 
ten  now,  and  not  yet  for  him  did  death  spell 
terror.  Because  of  this  David's  father  was  re 
lieved  ;  and  yet  —  still  because  of  this  —  he 
was  afraid. 

"David,"  he  said  gently.   "Listen  to  me." 

The  boy  turned  with  a  long  sigh. 

"Yes,  father." 

"We  must  go  away.  Out  in  the  great  world 
there  are  men  and  women  and  children  waiting 
for  you.  You've  a  beautiful  work  to  do;  and 
one  can't  do  one's  work  on  a  mountain-top." 

"Why  not?  I  like  it  here,  and  I've  always 
been  here." 

ii 


JUST  DAVID 

"Not  always,  David;  six  years.  You  were 
four  when  I  brought  you  here.  You  don't  re 
member,  perhaps." 

David  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  were  again 
dreamily  fixed  on  the  sky. 

"  I  think  I  'd  like  it  —  to  go  —  if  I  could  sail 
away  on  that  little  cloud-boat  up  there,'*  he 
murmured. 

The  man  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"We  can't  go  on  cloud-boats.  We  must 
walk,  David,  for  a  way  —  and  we  must  go  soon 

—  soon,"  he  added  feverishly.  "  I  must  get  you 
back  —  back  among  friends,  before  — " 

He  rose  unsteadily,  and  tried  to  walk  erect. 
His  limbs  shook,  and  the  blood  throbbed  at  his 
temples.  He  was  appalled  at  his  weakness. 
With  a  fierceness  born  of  his  terror  he  turned 
sharply  to  the  boy  at  his  side. 

"David,  we've  got  to  go!  We've  got  to  go 

—  to-morrow!" 
"Father!" 

"Yes,  yes,  come!"  He  stumbled  blindly,  yet 
in  some  way  he  reached  the  cabin  door. 

Behind  him  David  still  sat,  inert,  staring. 
The  next  minute  the  boy  had  sprung  to  his  feet 
and  was  hurrying  after  his  father. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   TRAIL 

A  CURIOUS  strength  seemed  to  have  come  to 
the  man.  With  almost  steady  hands  he  took 
down  the  photographs  and  the  Sistine  Ma 
donna,  packing  them  neatly  away  in  a  box  to 
be  left.  From  beneath  his  bunk  he  dragged  a 
large,  dusty  traveling-bag,  and  in  this  he  stowed 
a  little  food,  a  few  garments,  and  a  great  deal 
of  the  music  scattered  about  the  room. 

David,  in  the  doorway,  stared  in  dazed  won 
der.  Gradually  into  his  eyes  crept  a  look  never 
seen  there  before. 

"Father,  where  are  we  going?"  he  asked  at 
last  in  a  shaking  voice,  as  he  came  slowly  into 
the  room. 

"Back,  son;  we're  going  back." 

"To  the  village,  where  we  get  our  eggs  and 
bacon?" 

"No,  no,  lad,  not  there.  The  other  way.  We 
go  down  into  the  valley  this  time." 

"The  valley  —  my  valley,  with  the  Silver 
Lake?" 

i3 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  my  son;  and  beyond  —  far  beyond." 
The  man  spoke  dreamily.  He  was  looking  at  a 
photograph  in  his  hand.  It  had  slipped  in 
among  the  loose  sheets  of  music,  and  had  not 
been  put  away  with  the  others.  It  was  the  like 
ness  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

For  a  moment  David  eyed  him  uncertainly; 
then  he  spoke. 

"Daddy,  who  is  that?  Who  are  all  these 
people  in  the  pictures?  You've  never  told  me 
about  any  of  them  except  the  little  round  one 
that  you  wear  in  your  pocket.  Who  are  they?  " 

Instead  of  answering,  the  man  turned  far 
away  eyes  on  the  boy  and  smiled  wistfully. 

"Ah,  David,  lad,  how  they'll  love  you!  How 
they  will  love  you !  But  you  must  n't  let  them 
spoil  you,  son.  You  must  remember  —  remem 
ber  all  I've  told  you." 

Once  again  David  asked  his  question,  but 
this  time  the  man  only  turned  back  to  the 
photograph,  muttering  something  the  boy 
could  not  understand. 

After  that  David  did  not  question  any  more. 
He  was  too  amazed,  too  distressed.  He  had 
never  before  seen  his  father  like  this.  With 
nervous  haste  the  man  was  setting  the  little 


THE  TRAIL 

room  to  rights,  crowding  things  into  the  bag, 
and  packing  other  things  away  in  an  old  trunk. 
His  cheeks  were  very  red,  and  his  eyes  very 
bright.  He  talked,  too,  almost  constantly, 
though  David  could  understand  scarcely  a 
word  of  what  was  said.  Later,  the  man  caught 
up  his  violin  and  played ;  and  never  before  had 
David  heard  his  father  play  like  that.  The 
boy's  eyes  filled,  and  his  heart  ached  with  a  pain 
that  choked  and  numbed — though  why,  David 
could  not  have  told.  Still  later,  the  man 
dropped  his  violin  and  sank  exhausted  into  a 
chair;  and  then  David,  worn  and  frightened 
with  it  all,  crept  to  his  bunk  and  fell  asleep. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning  David 
awoke  to  a  different  world.  His  father,  white- 
faced  and  gentle,  was  calling  him  to  get  ready 
for  breakfast.  The  little  room,  dismantled  of 
its  decorations,  was  bare  and  cold.  The  bag, 
closed  and  strapped,  rested  on  the  floor  by  the 
door,  together  with  the  two  violins  in  their 
cases,  ready  to  carry. 

"We  must  hurry,  son.  It's  a  long  tramp 
before  we  take  the  cars." 

"The  cars  —  the  real  cars?  Do  we  go  in 
those?"  David  was  fully  awake  now. 

i5 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes." 

"And  is  that  all  we're  to  carry?" 

"Yes.  Hurry,  son." 

"But  we  come  back  —  sometime?"" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Father,  we're  coming  back  —  sometime?" 
David's  voice  was  insistent  now. 

The  man  stooped  and  tightened  a  strap  that 
was  already  quite  tight  enough.  Then  he 
laughed  lightly. 

"Why,  of  course  you're  coming  back  some 
time,  David.  Only  think  of  all  these  things 
we 're  leaving!" 

When  the  last  dish  was  put  away,  the  last 
garment  adjusted,  and  the  last  look  given  to 
the  little  room,  the  travelers  picked  up  the  bag 
and  the  violins,  and  went  out  into  the  sweet 
freshness  of  the  morning.  As  he  fastened  the 
door  the  man  sighed  profoundly;  but  David  did 
not  notice  this.  His  face  was  turned  toward 
the  east  —  always  David  looked  toward  the 
sun. 

"Daddy,  let's  not  go,  after  all!  Let's  stay 
here,"  he  cried  ardently,  drinking  in  the  beauty 
of  the  morning. 

"We  must  go,  David.  Come,  son."  And  the 
16 


THE  TRAIL 

man  led  the  way  across  the  green  slope  to  the 
west. 

It  was  a  scarcely  perceptible  trail,  but  the 
man  found  it,  and  followed  it  with  evident  con 
fidence.  There  was  only  the  pause  now  and 
then  to  steady  his  none-too-sure  step,  or  to  ease 
the  burden  of  the  bag.  Very  soon  the  forest  lay 
all  about  them,  with  the  birds  singing  over 
their  heads,  and  with  numberless  tiny  feet 
scurrying  through  the  underbrush  on  all  sides. 
Just  out  of  sight  a  brook  babbled  noisily  of  its 
delight  in  being  alive;  and  away  up  in  the  tree- 
tops  the  morning  sun  played  hide-and-seek 
among  the  dancing  leaves. 

And  David  leaped,  and  laughed,  and  loved  it 
all,  nor  was  any  of  it  strange  to  him.  The  birds> 
the  trees,  the  sun,  the  brook,  the  scurrying  little 
creatures  of  the  forest,  all  were  friends  of  his. 
But  the  man  —  the  man  did  not  leap  or  laugh, 
though  he,  too,  loved  it  all.  The  man  was 
afraid. 

He  knew  now  that  he  had  undertaken  more 
than  he  could  carry  out.  Step  by  step  the  bag 
had  grown  heavier,  and  hour  by  hour  the  in 
sistent,  teasing  pain  in  his  side  had  increased 
until  now  it  was  a  torture.  He  had  forgotten 

17 


JUST  DAVID 

that  the  way  to  the  valley  was  so  long;  he  had 
not  realized  how  nearly  spent  was  his  strength 
before  he  even  started  down  the  trail.  Throb 
bing  through  his  brain  was  the  question,  what 
if,  after  all,  he  could  not  —  but  even  to  himself 
he  would  not  say  the  words. 

At  noon  they  paused  for  luncheon,  and  at 
night  they  camped  where  the  chattering  brook 
had  stopped  to  rest  in  a  still,  black  pool.  The 
next  morning  the  man  and  the  boy  picked  up 
the  trail  again,  but  without  the  bag.  Under 
some  leaves  in  a  little  hollow,  the  man  had  hid 
den  the  bag,  and  had  then  said,  as  if  casually :  — 

"I  believe,  after  all,  I  won't  carry  this  along. 
There's  nothing  in  it  that  we  really  need,  you 
know,  now  that  I've  taken  out  the  luncheon 
box,  and  by  night  we'll  be  down  in  the  valley." 

"Of  course!"  laughed  David.  "We  don't 
need  that."  And  he  laughed  again,  for  pure 
joy.  Little', use  had  David  for  bags  or  bag 
gage! 

They  were  more  than  halfway  down  the 
mountain  now,  and  soon  they  reached  a  grass- 
grown  road,  little  traveled,  but  yet  a  road. 
Still  later  they  came  to  where  four  ways 
crossed,  and  two  of  them  bore  the  marks  of 

18 


THE  TRAIL 

many  wheels.  By  sundown  the  little  brook  at 
their  side  murmured  softly  of  cpiiet  fields  and 
meadows,  and  David  knew  that  the  valley  was 
reached. 

David  was  not  laughing  now.  He  was  watch 
ing  his  father  with  startled  eyes.  David  had  not 
known  what  anxiety  was.  He  was  finding  out 
now  —  though  he  but  vaguely  realized  that 
something  was  not  right.  For  some  time  his 
father  had  said  but  little,  and  that  little  had 
been  in  a  voice  that  was  thick  and  unnatural- 
sounding.  He  was  walking  fast,  yet  David 
noticed  that  every  step  seemed  an  effort,  and 
that  every  breath  came  in  short  gasps.  His 
eyes  were  very  bright,  and  were  fixedly  bent  on 
the  road  ahead,  as  if  even  the  haste  he  was 
making  was  not  haste  enough.  Twice  David 
spoke  to  him,  but  he  did  not  answer;  and  the 
boy  could  only  trudge  along  on  his  weary  little 
feet  and  sigh  for  the  dear  home  on  the  moun 
tain-top  which  they  had  left  behind  them  the 
morning  before. 

They  met  few  fellow  travelers,  and  those 
they  did  meet  paid  scant  attention  to  the  man 
and  the  boy  carrying  the  violins.  As  it  chanced, 
there  was  no  one  in  sight  when  the  man,  walk- 

19 


JUST  DAVID 

ing  in  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  road,  stum 
bled  and  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

David  sprang  quickly  forward. 

"Father,  what  is  it?  What  is  it  ?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Daddy,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  See, 
it's  David!" 

With  a  painful  effort  the  man  roused  him 
self  and  sat  up.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  dully 
into  the  boy's  face;  then  a  half-forgotten  some 
thing  seemed  to  stir  him  into  feverish  action. 
With  shaking  fingers  he  handed  David  his 
watch  and  a  small  ivory  miniature.  Then  he 
searched  his  pockets  until  on  the  ground  be 
fore  him  lay  a  shining  pile  of  gold-pieces  —  to 
David  there  seemed  to  be  a  hundred  of  them. 

"Take  them  —  hide  them  —  keep  them, 
David,  until  you  —  need  them,"  panted  the 
man.  "Then  go  —  go  on.  I  can't." 

"Alone?  Without  you?"'  demurred  the  boy, 
aghast.  "Why,  father,  I  couldn't!  I  don't 
know  the  way.  Besides,  I'd  rather  stay  with 
you,"  he  added  soothingly,  as  he  slipped  the 
watch  and  the  miniature  into  his  pocket;  "then 
we  can  both  go."  And  he  dropped  himself  down 
at  his  father's  side. 

20 


THE  TRAIL 

The  man  shook  his  head  feebly,  and  pointed 
again  to  the  gold-pieces. 

"Take  them,  David,  —  hide  them,"  he 
chattered  with  pale  lips. 

Almost  impatiently  the  boy  began  picking  up 
the  money  and  tucking  it  into  his  pockets. 

"But,  father,  I'm  not  going  without  you," 
he  declared  stoutly,  as  the  last  bit  of  gold 
slipped  out  of  sight,  and  a  horse  and  wagon 
rattled  around  the  turn  of  the  road  above. 

The  driver  of  the  horse  glanced  disapprov 
ingly  at  the  man  and  the  boy  by  the  roadside; 
but  he  did  not  stop.  After  he  had  passed,  the 
boy  turned  again  to  his  father.  The  man  was 
fumbling  once  more  in  his  pockets.  This  time 
from  his  coat  he  produced  a  pencil  and  a  small 
notebook  from  which  he  tore  a  page,  and  began 
to  write,  laboriously,  painfully. 

David  sighed  and  looked  about  him.  He  was 
tired  and  hungry,  and  he  did  not  understand 
things  at  all.  Something  very  wrong,  very  ter 
rible,  must  be  the  matter  with  his  father.  Here 
it  was  almost  dark,  yet  they  had  no  place  to 
go,  no  supper  to  eat,  while  far,  far  up  on  the 
mountain-side  was  their  own  dear  home  sad 
and  lonely  without  them.  Up  there,  too,  the  sun 

21 


JUST  DAVID 

still  shone,  doubtless,  —  at  least  there  were  the 
rose-glow  and  the  Silver  Lake  to  look  at,  while 
down  here  there  was  nothing,  nothing  but 
gray  shadows,  a  long  dreary  road,  and  a  strag 
gling  house  or  two  in  sight.  From  above,  the 
valley  might  look  to  be  a  fairyland  of  loveliness, 
but  in  reality  it  was  nothing  but  a  dismal  waste 
of  gloom,  decided  David. 

David's  father  had  torn  a  second  page  from 
his  book  and  was  beginning  another  note, 
when  the  boy  suddenly  jumped  to  his  feet.  One 
of  the  straggling  houses  was  near  the  road 
where  they  sat,  and  its  presence  had  given 
David  an  idea.  With  swift  steps  he  hurried  to 
the  front  door  and  knocked  upon  it.  In  answer 
a  tall,  unsmiling  woman  appeared,  and  said, 
"Well?" 

David  removed  his  cap  as  his  father  had 
taught  him  to  do  when  one  of  the  mountain 
women  spoke  to  him. 

"Good  evening,  lady;  I  'm  David,"  he  began 
frankly.  "My  father  is  so  tired  he  fell  down 
back  there,  and  we  should  like  very  much  to 
stay  with  you  all  night,  if  you  don't  mind." 

The  woman  in  the  doorway  stared.  For  a 
moment  she  was  dumb  with  amazement.  Her 

22 


THE  TRAIL 

eyes  swept  the  plain,  rather  rough  garments  of 
the  boy,  then  sought  the  half-recumbent  figure 
of  the  man  by  the  roadside.  Her  chin  came  up 
angrily. 

"Oh,  would  you,  indeed!  Well,  upon  m> 
word!"  she  scouted.    "Humph!  We  don't  ac 
commodate  tramps,  little  boy."  And  she  shut 
the  door  hard. 

It  was  David's  turn  to  stare.  Just  what  a 
tramp  might  be,  he  did  not  know;  but  never 
before  had  a  request  of  his  been  so  angrily  re 
fused.  He  knew  that.  A  fierce  something  rose 
within  him  —  a  fierce  new  something  that  sent 
the  swift  red  to  his  neck  and  brow.  He  raised 
a  determined  hand  to  the  doorknob  —  he  had 
something  to  say  to  that  woman !  —  when  the 
door  suddenly  opened  again  from  the  inside. 

"See  here,  boy,"  began  the  woman,  looking 
out  at  him  a  little  less  unkindly,  "if  you're 
hungry  I  '11  give  you  some  milk  and  bread.  Go 
around  to  the  back  porch  and  I'll  get  it  for 
you."  And  she  shut  the  door  again. 

David's  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  The  red 
still  stayed  on  his  face  and  neck,  however,  and 
that  fierce  new  something  within  him  bade  him 
refuse  to  take  food  from  this  woman.  .  .  .  Bu* 

•9 


JUST  DAVID 

there  was  his  father  —  his  poor  father,  who 
was  so  tired;  and  there  was  his  own  stomach 
clamoring  to  be  fed.  No,  he  could  not  refuse. 
And  with  slow  steps  and  hanging  head  David 
went  around  the  corner  of  the  house  to  the  rear. 

As  the  half-loaf  of  bread  and  the  pail  of  milk 
were  placed  in  his  hands,  David  remembered 
suddenly  that  in  the  village  store  on  the  moun 
tain,  his  father  paid  money  for  his  food.  David 
was  glad,  now,  that  he  had  those  gold-pieces  in 
his  pocket,  for  he  could  pay  money.  Instantly 
his  head  came  up.  Once  more  erect  with  self- 
respect,  he  shifted  his  burdens  to  one  hand  and 
thrust  the  other  into  his  pocket.  A  moment 
later  he  presented  on  his  outstretched  palm  a 
shining  disk  of  gold. 

"Will  you  take  this,  to  pay,  please,  for  the 
bread  and  milk?"  he  asked  proudly. 

The  woman  began  to  shake  her  head ;  but,  as 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  money,  she  started,  and 
bent  closer  to  examine  it.  The  next  instant  she 
jerked  herself  upright  with  an  angry  exclama 
tion. 

"It's  gold!  A  ten-dollar  gold-piece!  So 
you're  a  thief,  too,  are  you,  as  well  as  a  tramp? 
Humph!  Well,  I  guess  you  don't  need  this. 


THE  TRAIL 

then,"  she  finished  sharply,  snatching  the 
bread  and  the  pail  of  milk  from  the  boy's  hand. 

The  next  moment  David  stood  alone  on  the 
doorstep,  with  the  sound  of  a  quickly  thrown 
bolt  in  his  ears. 

A  thief!  David  knew  little  of  thieves,  but  he 
knew  what  they  were.  Only  a  month  before  a 
man  had  tried  to  steal  the  violins  from  the 
cabin;  and  he  was  a  thief,  the  milk-boy  said. 
David  flushed  now  again,  angrily,  as  he  faced 
the  closed  door.  But  he  did  not  tarry.  He 
turned  and  ran  to  his  father. 

"Father,  come  away,  quick!  You  must  come 
away,"  he  choked. 

So  urgent  was  the  boy's  voice  that  almost 
unconsciously  the  sick  man  got  to  his  feet. 
With  shaking  hands  he  thrust  the  notes  he  had 
been  writing  into  his  pocket.  The  little  book, 
from  which  he  had  torn  the  leaves  for  this  pur 
pose,  had  already  dropped  unheeded  into  the 
grass  at  his  feet. 

"Yes,  son,  yes,  we'll  go,"  muttered  the  man. 
"I  feel  better  now.  I  can  —  walk." 

And  he  did  walk,  though  very  slowly,  ten,  a 
dozen,  twenty  steps.  From  behind  came  the 
sound  of  wheels  that  stopped  close  beside  them. 

25 


JUST  DAVID 

"Hullo,  there!  Going  to  the  village?"  called 
a  voice. 

"Yes,  sir."  David's  answer  was  unhesitat 
ing.  Where  "  the  village  "  was,  he  did  not  know ; 
he  knew  only  that  it  must  be  somewhere  away 
from  the  woman  who  had  called  him  a  thief. 
And  that  was  all  he  cared  to  know. 

"I'm  going  'most  there  myself.  Want  a 
lift?"  asked  the  man,  still  kindly. 

"Yes,  sir.  Thank  you!"  cried  the  boy  joy 
fully.  And  together  they  aided  his  father  to 
climb  into  the  roomy  wagon-body. 

There  were  few  words  said.  The  man  at  the 
reins  drove  rapidly,  and  paid  little  attention  to 
anything  but  his  horses.  The  sick  man  dozed 
and  rested.  The  boy  sat,  wistful-eyed  and  si 
lent,  watching  the  trees  and  houses  flit  by. 
The  sun  had  long  ago  set,  but  it  was  not  dark, 
for  the  moon  was  round  and  bright,  and  the 
sky  was  cloudless.  Where  the  road  forked 
sharply  the  man  drew  his  horses  to  a  stop. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
drop  you  here,  friends.  I  turn  off  to  the  right ; 
but 't  ain't  more'n  a  quarter  of  a  mile  for  you 
now,"  he  finished  cheerily,  pointing  with  his 
whip  to  a  cluster  of  twinkling  lights." 

26 


THE  TRAIL 

"Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you,"  breathed 
David  gratefully,  steadying  his  father's  steps. 
"You've  helped  us  lots.  Thank  you!" 

In  David's  heart  was  a  wild  desire  to  lay  at 
this  good  man's  feet  all  of  his  shining  gold- 
pieces  as  payment  for  this  timely  aid.  But 
caution  held  him  back:  it  seemed  that  only  in 
stores  did  money  pay;  outside,  it  branded  one 
as  a  thief! 

Alone  with  his  father,  David  faced  once 
more  his  problem.  Where  should  they  go  for 
the  night?  Plainly  his  father  could  not  walk 
far.  He  had  begun  to  talk  again,  too,  —  low, 
half-finished  sentences  that  David  could  not 
understand,  and  ,that  vaguely  troubled  him. 
There  was  a  house  near  by,  and  several  others 
down  the  road  toward  the  village;  but  David 
had  had  all  the  experience  he  wanted  that 
night  with  strange  houses,  and  strange  women. 
There  was  a  barn,  a  big  one,  which  was  nearest 
of  all ;  and  it  was  toward  this  barn  that  David 
finally  turned  his  father's  steps. 

"We'll  go  there,  daddy,  if  we  can  get  in,"  he 
proposed  softly.  "And  we'll  stay  all  night  and 
rest." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  VALLEY 

THE  long  twilight  of  the  June  day  had  changed 
into  a  night  that  was  scarcely  darker,  so  bright 
was  the  moonlight.  Seen  from  the  house,  the 
barn  and  the  low  buildings  beyond  loomed 
shadowy  and  unreal,  yet  very  beautiful.  On 
the  side  porch  of  the  house  sat  Simeon  Holly 
and  his  wife,  content  to  rest  mind  and  body 
only  because  a  full  day's  work  lay  well  done 
behind  them. 

It  was  just  as  Simeon  rose  to  his  feet  to  go 
indoors  that  a  long  note  from  a  violin  reached 
their  ears. 

"Simeon!"  cried  the  woman.  "What  was 
that?" 

The  man  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  barn. 

"Simeon,  it's  a  fiddle!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Holly,  as  a  second  tone  quivered  on  the  air, 
"And  it's  in  our  barn!" 

Simeon's  jaw  set.  With  a  stern  ejaculation 
he  crossed  the  porch  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

28 


THE  VALLEY 

In  another  minute  he  had  returned,  a  lighted 
lantern  in  his  hand. 

"Simeon,  d —  don't  go,"  begged  the  woman, 
tremulously.  "You  —  you  don't  know  what's 
there." 

"Fiddles  are  not  played  without  hands, 
Ellen,"  retorted  the  man  severely.  "Would  you 
have  me  go  to  bed  and  leave  a  half-drunken, 
ungodly  minstrel  fellow  in  possession  of  our 
barn?  To-night,  on  my  way  home,  I  passed  a 
pretty  pair  of  them  lying  by  the  roadside  —  a 
man  and  a  boy,  with  two  violins.  They  're  the 
culprits,  likely,  —  though  how  they  got  this 
far,  I  don't  see.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  leave 
my  barn  to  tramps  like  them?" 

"N —  no,  I  suppose  not,"  faltered  the  wo 
man,  as  she  rose  tremblingly  to  her  feet,  and 
followed  her  husband's  shadow  across  the  yard. 

Once  inside  the  barn  Simeon  Holly  and  his 
wife  paused  involuntarily.  The  music  was  all 
about  them  now,  filling  the  air  with  runs  and 
trills  and  rollicking  bits  of  melody.  Giving  an 
angry  exclamation,  the  man  turned  then  to  the 
narrow  stairway  and  climbed  to  the  hayloft 
above.  At  his  heels  came  his  wife,  and  so  her 
eyes,  almost  as  soon  as  his;  fell  upon  the  man 

29 


JUST  DAVID 

lying  back  on  the  hay  with  the  moonlight  full 
upon  his  face. 

Instantly  the  music  dropped  to  a  whisper* 
and  a  low  voice  came  out  of  the  gloom  beyond 
the  square  of  moonlight  which  came  from  the 
window  in  the  roof. 

(  "If  you'll  please  be  as  still  as  you  can,  sir. 
You  see  he's  asleep  and  he's  so  tired,"  said  the 
voice. 

For  a  moment  the  man  and  the  woman  on 
the  stairway  paused  in  amazement,  then  the 
man  lifted  his  lantern  and  strode  toward  the 
voice. 

"Who  are  you?  What^re  you  doing  here?" 
he  demanded  sharply. 

A  boy's  face,  round,  tanned,  and  just  now  a 
bit  anxious,  flashed  out  of  the  dark. 

"Oh,  please,  sir,  if  you  would  speak  lower," 
pleaded  the  boy.  "He's  so  tired!  I'm  David, 
sir,  and  that's  father.  We  came  in  here  to  rest 
and  sleep." 

Simeon  Holly's  unrelenting  gaze  left  the 
boy's  face  and  swept  that  of  the  man  lying 
back  on  the  hay.  The  next  instant  he  lowered 
the  lantern  and  leaned  nearer,  putting  forth  a 
cautious  hand.  At  once  he  straightened  him- 

3o 


THE  VALLEY 

self,  muttering  a  brusque  word  under  his 
breath.  Then  he  turned  with  the  angry  ques 
tion  :  — 

"Boy,  what  do  you  mean  by  playing  a  jig  on 
your  fiddle  at  such  a  tune  as  this?" 

"Why,  father  asked  me  to  play,"  returned 
the  boy  cheerily.  "He  said  he  could  walk 
through  green  forests  then,  with  the  ripple  of 
brooks  in  his  ears,  and  that  the  birds  and  the 
squirrels — " 

"See  here,  boy,  who  are  you?"  cut  in  Simeon 
Holly  sternly.  "Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"From  home,  sir.'* 

"Where  is  that?" 

"Why,  home,  sir,  where  I  live.  In  the  moun 
tains,  'way  up,  up,  up  —  oh,  so  far  up !  And 
there's  such  a  big,  big  sky,  so  much  nicer  than 
down  here."  The  boy's  voice  quivered,  and  al 
most  broke,  and  his  eyes  constantly  sought  the 
white  face  on  the  hay. 

It  was  then  that  Simeon  Holly  awoke  to  the 
sudden  realization  that  it  was  time  for  action. 
He  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Take  the  boy  to  the  house,"  he  directed 
incisively.  "We'll  have  to  keep  him  to-night,  I 
suppose.  I'll  go  for  Higgins.  Of  course  th. 

3i 


JUST  DAVID 

whole  thing  will  have  to  be  put  in  his  hands  at 
once.  You  can't  do  anything  here,"  he  added, 
as  he  caught  her  questioning  glance.  "Leave 
everything  just  as  it  is.  The  man  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  It  was  a  sharp  cry  from  the  boy, 
yet  there  was  more  of  wonder  than  of  terror  it 
it.  "Do  you  mean  that  he  has  gone  —  like  the 
water  in  the  brook  —  to  the  far  country?"  he 
faltered. 

Simeon  Holly  stared.  Then  he  said  more 
distinctly :  — 

"Your  father  is  dead,  boy." 

"And  he  won't  come  back  any  more?" 
David's  voice  broke  now. 

There  was  no  answer.  Mrs.  Holly  caught  her 
breath  convulsively  and  looked  away.  Even 
Simeon  Holly  refused  to  meet  the  boy's  plead 
ing  eyes. 

With  a  quick  cry  David  sprang  to  his  father's 
side. 

"But  he's  here — right  here,"  he  challenged 
shrilly.  "Daddy,  daddy,  speak  to  me!  It's 
David!"  Reaching  out  his  hand,  he  gently 
touched  his  father's  face.  He  drew  back  then, 
at  once,  his  eyes  distended  with  terror.  "He 
is  n't!  He  is  —  gone,"  he  chattered  frenziedly. 


THE  VALLEY 

"This  is  n't  the  father-part  that  knows.  It 's  the 
other  —  that  they  leave.   He's  left  it  behind 
him  —  like  the  squirrel,  and  the  water  in  the  ' 
brook." 

Suddenly  the  boy's  face  changed.  It  grew 
rapt  and  luminous  as  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  cry 
ing  joyously:  "But  he  asked  me  to  play,  so  he 
went  singing  —  singing  just  as  he  said  that 
they  did.  And  I  made  him  walk  through  green 
forests  with  the  ripple  of  the  brooks  in  his  ears ! 
Listen  —  like  this!"  And  once  more  the  boy 
raised  the  violin  to  his  chin,  and  once  more  the 
music  trilled  and  rippled  about  the  shocked, 
amazed  ears  of  Simeon  Holly  and  his  wife. 

For  a  time  neither  the  man  nor  the  woman 
could  speak.  There  was  nothing  in  their  hum 
drum,  habit-smoothed  tilling  of  the  soil  and 
washing  of  pots  and  pans  to  prepare  them  for  a 
scene  like  this  —  a  moonlit  barn,  a  strange 
dead  man,  and  that  dead  man's  son  babbling  of 
brooks  and  squirrels,  and  playing  jigs  on  a  fid 
dle  for  a  dirge.  At  last,  however,  Simeon  found 
his  voice. 

"Boy,  boy,  stop  that!"  he  thundered.  "Are 
you  mad  —  clean  mad?  Go  into  the  house,  I 
say ! "  And  the  boy,  dazed  but  obedient,  put  up 

33 


JUST  DAVID 

his  violin,  and  followed  the  woman,  who,  with 
tear-blinded  eyes,  was  leading  the  way  down 
the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Holly  was  frightened,  but  she  was 
also  strangely  moved.  From  the  long  ago  the 
sound  of  another  violin  had  come  to  her  —  a 
violin,  too,  played  by  a  boy's  hands.  But  of 
this,  all  this,  Mrs.  Holly  did  not  like  to  think. 

In  the  kitchen  now  she  turned  and  faced  her 
young  guest. 

"Are  you  hungry,  little  boy?" 

David  hesitated;  he  had  not  forgotten  the 
woman,  the  milk,  and  the  gold-piece. 

' '  Are  you  hungry  —  dear  ? ' '  stammer^ 
Mrs.  Holly  again;  and  this  time  David's  clam 
orous  stomach  forced  a  "yes"  from  his  unwill 
ing  lips;  which  sent  Mrs.  HoHy  at  once  into  the 
pantry  for  bread  and  milk  and  a  heaped-up 
plate  of  doughnuts  such  as  David  had  never 
seen  before. 

Like  any  hungry  boy  David  ate  his  supper; 
and  Mrs.  Holly,  in  the  face  of  this  very  ordi 
nary  sight  of  hunger  being  appeased  at  her 
table,  breathed  more  freely,  and  ventured  to 
ihink  that  perhaps  this  strange  little  boy  was 
not  so  very  strange,  after  all. 

34 


THE  VALLEY 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  found  courage 
to  ask  then. 

"David." 

"David  what?" 

"Just  David." 

"But  your  father's  name?"  Mrs.  Holly  hacf 
almost  asked,  but  stopped  in  tune.  She  did  not 
want  to  speak  of  him.  "Where  do  you  live?" 
she  asked  instead. 

"On  the  mountain,  'way  up,  up  on  the  moun* 
tain  where  I  can  see  my  Silver  Lake  every  day, 
you  know." 

"But  you  did  n't  live  there  alone?" 

"Oh,  no;  with  father  —  before  he  —  went 
away,"  faltered  the  boy. 

The  woman  flushed  red  and  bit  her  lip. 

"No,  no,  I  mean  —  were  there  no  other 
houses  but  yours?"  she  stammered. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"But,  was  n't  your  mother  —  anywhere?" 

"Oh,  yes,  in  father's  pocket." 

"Your  mother  —  in  your  father's  pocket!'9 

So  plainly  aghast  was  the  questioner  that 
David  looked  not  a  little  surprised  as  he  ex 
plained. 

"You  don't  understand.  She  is  an  angel- 
35 


JUST  DAVID 

mother,  and  angel-mothers  don't  have  any 
thing  only  their  pictures  down  here  with  us. 
And  that's  what  we  have,  and  father  always 
carried  it  in  his  pocket." 

"Oh  —  h,"  murmured  Mrs.  Holly,  a  quick 
mist  in  her  eyes.  Then,  gently:  "Anddidyoi^ 
always  live  there  —  on  the  mountain?" 

"  Six  years,  father  said." 

"But  what  did  you  do  all  day?  Were  n't  you 
ever  —  lonesome?" 

"Lonesome?"  The  boy's  eyes  were  puzzled. 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  miss  things  —  people, 
other  houses,  boys  of  your  own  age,  and  —  and 
such  things?" 

David's  eyes  widened. 

"Why,  how  could  I?"  he  cried.    "When  I 
had  daddy,  and  my  violin,  and  my  Silver  Lake, 
and  the  whole  of  the  great  big  woods  with 
everything  in  them  to  talk  to,  and  to  tall 
tome?" 

"Woods,  and  things  in  them  to  —  to  talk  to 
you!" 

"Why,  yes.  It  was  the  little  brook,  you 
know,  after  the  squirrel,  that  told  me  about 
being  dead,  and — " 

"Yes,  yes;  but  never  mind,  dear,  now," 
36 


THE  VALLEY 

stammered  the  woman,  rising  hurriedly  to  her 
feet  —  the  boy  was  a  little  wild,  after  all,  she 
thought.  "You  —  you  should  go  to  bed. 
Have  n't  you  a  —  a  bag,  or  —  or  anything?" 

"No,  ma'am;  we  left  it,"  smiled  David 
apologetically.  "You  see,  we  had  so  much  in  it 
that  it  got  too  heavy  to  carry.  So  we  did  n't 
bring  it." 

"  So  much  in  it  you  did  n't  bring  it,  indeed !" 
repeated  Mrs.  Holly,  under  her  breath,  throw 
ing  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"Boy,  what  are  you,  anyway?" 

It  was  not  meant  for  a  question,  but,  to  the 
woman's  surprise,  the  boy  answered,  frankly, 
simply :  — 

"Father  says  that  I'm  one  little  instrument 
in  the  great  Orchestra  of  Life,  and  that  I  must 
see  to  it  that  I'm  always  in  tune,  and  don't 
drag  or  hit  false  notes." 

"My  land!"  breathed  the  woman,  dropping 
back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  boy. 
Then,  with  an  effort,  she  got  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  you  must  go  to  bed,"  she  stam 
mered.  "I'm  sure  bed  is  —  is  the  best  place 
for  you.  I  think  I  can  find  what  —  what  you 
will  need,"  she  finished  feebly. 

37 

72423 


JUST   DAVID 

In  a  snug  little  room  over  the  kitchen  some 
minutes  later,  David  found  himself  at  last 
alone.  The  room,  though  it  had  once  belonged 
to  a  boy  of  his  own  age,  looked  very  strange  to 
David.  On  the  floor  was  a  rag-carpet  rug,  the 
first  he  had  ever  seen.  On  the  walls  were  a  fish 
ing-rod,  a  toy  shotgun,  and  a  case  full  of  bugs 
and  moths,  each  little  body  impaled  on  a  pin,  to 
David's  shuddering  horror.  The  bed  had  four 
tall  posts  at  the  corners,  and  a  very  puffy  top 
that  filled  David  with  wonder  as  to  how  he 
was  to  reach  it,  or  stay  there  if  he  did  gain  it. 
Across  a  chair  lay  a  boy's  long  yellow-white 
nightshirt  that  the  kind  lady  had  left,  after 
hurriedly  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  edge  of  its 
hem.  In  all  the  circle  of  the  candlelight  there 
was  just  one  familiar  object  to  David's  home 
sick  eyes  —  the  long  black  violin  case  which  he 
had  brought  in  himself,  and  which  held  his 
beloved  violin. 

With  his  back  carefully  turned  toward  the 
impaled  bugs  and  moths  on  the  wall,  David 
undressed  himself  and  slipped  into  the  yellow- 
white  nightshirt,  which  he  sniffed  at  gratefully, 
so  like  pine  woods  was  the  perfume  that  hung 
about  its  folds.  Then  he  blew  out  the  candle 


THE  VALLEY 

and  groped  his  way  to  the  one  window  the  little 
room  contained. 

The  moon  still  shone,  but  little  could  be  seen 
through  the  thick  green  branches  of  the  tree 
outside.  From  the  yard  below  came  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  of  men's  excited  voices.  There 
came  also  the  twinkle  of  lanterns  borne  by 
nurrying  hands,  and  the  tramp  of  shuffling 
feet.  In  the  window  David  shivered.  There 
were  no  wide  sweep  of  mountain,  hill,  and  val 
ley,  no  Silver  Lake,  no  restful  hush,,  no  daddy, 
-  no  beautiful  Things  that  Were.  There  was 
only  the  dreary,  hollow  mockery  of  the  Things 
they  had  Become. 

Long  minutes  later,  David,  with  the  violin  in 
his  arms,  lay  down  upon  the  rug,  and,  for  the 
first  time  since  babyhood,  sobbed  himself  to 
sleep  —  but  it  was  a  sleep  that  brought  no 
rest;  for  in  it  he  dreamed  that  he  was  a  big, 
white-winged  moth  pinned  with  a  star  to  ac 
ink-black  sky. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO    LETTERS 

IN  the  early  gray  dawn  David  awoke.  His 
first  sensation  was  the  physical  numbness  and 
stiffness  that  came  from  his  hard  bed  on  the 
floor. 

"Why,  daddy,"  he  began,  pulling  himself 
half-erect,  "  I  slept  all  night  on — "  He  stopped 
suddenly,  brushing  his  eyes  with  the  backs  of 
his  hands.  "Why,  daddy,  where — "  Then 
full  consciousness  came  to  him. 

With  a  low  cry  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  ran 
to  the  window.  Through  the  trees  he  could  see 
the  sunrise  glow  of  the  eastern  sky.  Down  in 
the  yard  no  one  was  in  sight;  but  the  barn  door 
was  open,  and,  with  a  quick  indrawing  of  his 
wreath,  David  turned  back  into  the  room  and 
began  to  thrust  himself  into  his  clothing, 
t  The  gold  in  his  sagging  pockets  clinked  and 
jingled  musically ;  and  once  half  a  dozen  pieces 
rolled  out  upon  the  floor.  For  a  moment  the 
boy  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  let  them  re 
main  where  they  were.  But  the  next  minute, 

4o 


TWO  LETTERS 

with  an  impatient  gesture,  he  had  picked  them 
up  and  thrust  them  deep  into  one  of  his  pockets, 
silencing  their  jingling  with  his  handkerchief. 

Once  dressed,  David  picked  up  his  violin  and 
stepped  softly  into  the  hall.  At  first  no  sound 
reached  his  ears;  then  from  the  kitchen  below 
came  the  clatter  of  brisk  feet  and  the  rattle  of 
tins  and  crockery.  Tightening  his  clasp  on  the 
violin,  David  slipped  quietly  down  the  back 
stairs  and  out  to  the  yard.  It  was  only  a  few 
seconds  then  before  he  was  hurrying  through 
the  open  doorway  of  the  barn  and  up  the  nar 
row  stairway  to  the  loft  above. 

At  the  top,  however,  he  came  to  a  sharp 
pause,  with  a  low  cry.  The  next  moment  he 
turned  to  see  a  kindly-faced  man  looking  up  at 
him  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  sir,  please  —  please,  where  is  he?  What 
have  you  done  with  him?"  appealed  the  boy, 
almost  plunging  headlong  down  the  stairs  in 
his  haste  to  reach  the  bottom. 

Into  the  man's  weather-beaten  face  came  s 
look  of  sincere  but  awkward  sympathy. 

"Oh,  hullo,  sonny!  So  you're  the  boy,  are 
ye?"  he  began  diffidently. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  David.   But  where  is  he  — 


JUST  DAVID 

my  father,  you  know?  I  mean  the  —  the  part 
he  —  he  left  behind  him?"  choked  the  boy. 
"The  part  like  —  the  ice-coat?" 

The  man  stared.  Then,  involuntarily,  he 
began  to  back  away. 

"Well,  ye  see,  I  — I—" 

"But,  maybe  you  don't  know,"  interrupted 
David  feverishly.  "You  aren't  the  man  I  saw 
last  night.  Who  are  you?  Where  is  he  —  the 
other  one,  please?" 

"No,  I  —  I  wa'  n't  here  —  that  is,  not  at  the 
first,"  spoke  up  the  man  quickly,  still  uncon 
sciously  backing  away.  "Me  —  I 'm  only  Lar 
son,  Perry  Larson,  ye  know.  'T  was  Mr.  Holly 
you  see  last  night  —  him  that  I  works  for." 

"Then,  where  is  Mr.  Holly,  please?"  faltered 
the  boy,  hurrying  toward  the  barn  door.  "May 
be  he  would  know  —  about  father.  Oh,  there 
he  is!"  And  David  ran  out  of  the  barn  and 
across  the  yard  to  the  kitchen  porch. 

It  was  an  unhappy  ten  minutes  that  David 
spent  then.  Besides  Mr.  Holly,  there  were 
Mrs.  Holly,  and  the  man,  Perry  Larson.  And 
they  all  talked.  But  little  of  what  they  said 
could  David  understand.  To  none  of  his  ques 
tions  could  he  obtain  an  answer  that  satisfied. 

42 


TWO  LETTERS 

Neither,  on  his  part,  could  he  seem  to  reply  to 
their  questions  in  a  way  that  pleased  them. 

They  went  in  to  breakfast  then,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Holly,  and  the  man,  Perry  Larson.  They 
asked  David  to  go  —  at  least,  Mrs.  Holly 
asked  him.  But  David  shook  his  head  and  said: 
"No,  no,  thank  you  very  much;  I'd  rather  not, 
if  you  please  —  not  now."  Then  he  dropped 
himself  down  on  the  steps  to  think.  As  if  he 
could  eat  —  with  that  great  choking  lump  in 
his  throat  that  refused  to  be  swallowed ! 

David  was  thoroughly  dazed,  frightened,  and 
dismayed.  He  knew  now  that  never  again  in 
this  world  would  he  see  his  dear  father,  or  hear 
him  speak.  This  much  had  been  made  very 
clear  to  him  during  the  last  ten  minutes.  Why 
this  should  be  so,  or  what  his  father  would 
want  him  to  do,  he  could  not  seem  to  find  out. 
Not  until  now  had  he  realized  at  all  what  this 
going  away  of  his  father  was  to  mean  to  him. 
And  he  told  himself  frantically  that  he  could 
not  have  it  so.  He  could  not  have  it  so!  But 
even  as  he  said  the  words,  he  knew  that  it  was 
so  —  irrevocably  so. 

David  began  then  to  long  for  his  mountain 
home.  There  at  least  he  would  have  his  dear 

43 


JUST  DAVID 

forest  all  about  him,  with  the  birds  and  the 
squirrels  and  the  friendly  little  brooks.  There 
he  would  have  his  Silver  Lake  to  look  at,  too, 
and  all  of  them  would  speak  to  him  of  his 
father.  He  believed,  indeed,  that  up  there  it 
would  almost  seem  as  if  his  father  were  really 
with  him.  And,  anyway,  if  his  father  ever 
should  come  back,  it  would  be  there  that  he 
would  be  sure  to  seek  him  —  up  there  in  the 
little  mountain  home  so  dear  to  them  both. 
Back  to  the  cabin  he  would  go  now,  then.  Yes; 
indeed  he  would ! 

With  a  low  word  and  a  passionately  intent 
expression,  David  got  to  his  feet,  picked  up  his 
violin,  and  hurried,  firm-footed,  down  the 
driveway  and  out  upon  the  main  highway, 
turning  in  the  direction  from  whence  he  had 
come  with  his  father  the  night  before. 

The  Holly s  had  just  finished  breakfast  when 
Higgins,  the  coroner,  drove  into  the  yard  ac 
companied  by  William  Streeter,  the  town's 
most  prominent  farmer,  —  and  the  most  mis 
erly  one,  if  report  was  to  be  credited. 

"Well,  could  you  get  anything  out  of  the 
boy?"  demanded  Higgins,  without  ceremony, 

44 


TWO  LETTERS 

as  Simeon  Holly  and  Larson  appeared  OD  the 
kitchen  porch. 

"Very  little.  Really  nothing  of  importance," 
answered  Simeon  Holly. 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Why,  he  was  here  on  the  steps  a  few  min 
utes  ago."  Simeon  Holly  looked  about  him  a 
bit  impatiently. 

"Well,  I  want  to  see  him.  I  've  got  a  letter 
for  him." 

"A  letter!"  exclaimed  Simeon  Holly  and 
Larson  in  amazed  unison. 

"Yes.  Found  it  in  his  father's  pocket," 
nodded  the  coroner,  with  all  the  tantalizing 
brevity  of  a  man  who  knows  he  has  a  choice 
morsel  of  information  that  is  eagerly  awaited. 
"It's  addressed  to  'My  boy  David,'  so  I  cal 
culated  we'd  better  give  it  to  him  first  without 
reading  it,  seeing  it's  his.  After  he  reads  it, 
though,  I  want  to  see  it.  I  want  to  see  if  what 
it  says  is  any  nearer  being  horse-sense  than  the 
other  one  is." 

"The  other  one!"  exclaimed  the  amazed 
chorus  again. 

"Oh,  yes,  there's  another  one,"  spoke  up 
William  Streeter  tersely.  "And  I've  read  it  — 

45 


JUST  DAVID 

all  but  the  scrawl  at  the  end.  There  could  n't 
anybody  read  that!" 

Higgins  laughed. 

"Well,  I'm  free  to  confess  'tis  a  sticker  — 
chat  name,"  he  admitted.  "And  it's  the  name 
we  want,  of  course,  to  tell  us  who  they  are — 
since  it  seems  the  boy  don't  know,  from  what 
you  said  last  night.  I  was  in  hopes,  by  this 
morning,  you'd  have  found  out  more  from 
him." 

Simeon  Holly  shook  his  head. 

"'T  was  impossible." 

"  Gosh !  I  should  say  't  was,"  cut  in  Perry 
Larson,  with  emphasis.  "An*  queer  ain't  no 
name  for  it.  One  minute  he'd  be  talkin'  good 
common  sense  like  anybody:  an'  the  next  he'd 
be  chatterin'  of  coats  made  o'  ice,  an'  birds  an' 
squirrels  an'  babbling  brooks.  He  sure  is  dippy ! 
Listen.  He  actually  don't  seem  ter  know  the 
diff'rence  between  hisself  an'  his  fiddle.  We 
was  tryin'  ter  find  out  this  mornin'  what  he 
could  do,  an'  what  he  wanted  ter  do,  when  if  he 
did  n't  up  an'  say  that  his  father  told  him  it 
did  n't  make  so  much  difference  what  he  did  so 
long  as  he  kept  hisself  in  tune  an'  did  n't  strike 
false  notes.  Now,  what  do  yer  think  o'  that?" 

46 


TWO  LETTERS 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Higgins  musingly. 
"There  was  something  queer  about  them,  and 
they  weren't  just  ordinary  tramps.  Did  I  tell 
you?  I  overtook  them  last  night  away  up  on 
the  Fairbanks  road  by  the  Taylor  place,  and  I 
gave  'em  a  lift.  I  particularly  noticed  what  a 
decent  sort  they  were.  They  were  clean  and 
quiet-spoken,  and  their  clothes  were  good,  even 
if  they  were  rough.  Yet  they  did  n't  have  any 
baggage  but  them  fiddles." 

"But  what  was  that  second  letter  you  men 
tioned?"  asked  Simeon  Holly. 

Higgins  smiled  oddly,  and  reached  into  his 
pocket. 

"The  letter?  Oh,  you 're  welcome  to  read  the 
letter,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  over  a  bit  of 
folded  paper. 

Simeon  took  it  gingerly  and  examined  it. 

It  was  a  leaf  torn  apparently  from  a  note-^ 
book.  It  was  folded  three  times,  and  bore  on 
the  outside  the  superscription  "To  whom  it 
may  concern."  The  handwriting  was  peculiar, 
irregular,  and  not  very  legible.  But  as  near  as 
it  could  be  deciphered,  the  note  ran  thus:  — 

Now  that  the  time  has  come  when  I  must  give  Da 
vid  baek  to  the  world,  I  have  set  out  for  that  purpose. 

4? 


JUST  DAVID 

But  I  am  ill  —  very  ill,  and  should  Death  have 
swifter  feet  than  I,  I  must  leave  my  task  for  others  to 
complete.  Deal  gently  with  him.  He  knows  only  that 
which  is  good  and  beautiful.  He  knows  nothing  of  sin 
nor  evil. 

Then  followed  the  signature  —  a  thing  of 
scrawls  and  flourishes  that  conveyed  no  sort  of 
meaning  to  Simeon  Holly's  puzzled  eyes. 

"Well?"  prompted  Higgins  expectantly. 

Simeon  Holly  shook  his  head. 

"I  can  make  little  of  it.  It  certainly  is  a 
most  remarkable  note." 

"Gould  you  read  the  name?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  couldn't.  Neither  could  half  a 
dozen  others  that's  seen  it.  But  where 's  the 
boy?  Mebbe  his  note '11  talk  sense." 

"I'll  go  find  him,"  volunteered  Larson. 
"He  must  be  somewheres  'round." 

But  David  was  very  evidently  not  "some 
wheres  'round."  At  least  he  was  not  in  the  barn, 
the  shed,  the  kitchen  bedroom,  nor  anywhere 
else  that  Larson  looked;  and  the  man  was  just 
coming  back  with  a  crestfallen,  perplexed  frown, 
when  Mrs.  Holly  hurried  out  on  to  the  porch. 

"Mr.  Higgins,"  she  cried,  in  obvious  ex- 
48 


TWO  LETTERS 

citement,  "your  wife  has  just  telephoned  that 
her  sister  Mollie  has  just  telephoned  her  that 
that  little  tramp  boy  with  the  violin  is  at  her 
house." 

"At  Mollie's!"  exclaimed  Higgins.  "Why, 
that's  a  mile  or  more  from  here." 

"So  that's  where  he  is!"  interposed  Larson, 
hurrying  forward.  "Doggone  the  little  rascal! 
He  must  'a'  slipped  away  while  we  was  eatin' 
breakfast." 

"Yes.  But,  Simeon,  —  Mr.  Higgins,  —  we 
had  n't  ought  to  let  him  go  like  that,"  appealed 
Mrs.  Holly  tremulously.  "Your  wife  said 
Mollie  said  she  found  him  crying  at  the  cross 
roads,  because  he  did  n't  know  which  way  to 
take.  He  said  he  was  going  back  home.  He 
means  to  that  wretched  cabin  on  the  mountain, 
you  know;  and  we  can't  let  him  do  that  alone 
-a  child  like  that!" 

"Where  is  he  now?"  demanded  Higgins. 

"In  Mollie's  kitchen  eating  bread  and  milk; 
but  she  said  she  had  an  awful  time  getting  him 
to  eat.  And  she  wants  to  know  what  to  do 
with  him.  That's  why  she  telephoned  your 
wife.  She  thought  you  ought  to  know  he  was 
there." 

49 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  of  course.  Well,  tell  her  to  tell  him  to 
come  back." 

"Mollie  said  she  tried  to  have  him  come 
back,  but  that  he  said,  no,  thank  you,  he'd 
rather  not.  He  was  going  home  where  his 
father  could  find  him  if  he  should  ever  want 
him.  Mr.  Higgins,  we  —  we  can't  let  him  go  off 
like  that.  Why,  the  child  would  die  up  there 
alone  in  those  dreadful  woods,  even  if  he  could 
get  there  in  the  first  place  —  which  I  very 
much  doubt." 

"Yes,  of  course,  of  course,"  muttered  Hig 
gins,  with  a  thoughtful  frown.  "There's  his 
letter,  too.  Say!"  he  added,  brightening, 
"what '11  you  bet  that  letter  won't  fetch  him? 
He  seems  to  think  the  world  and  all  of  his 
daddy.  Here,"  he  directed,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Holly,  "you  tell  my  wife  to  tell  —  better  yet, 
you  telephone  Mollie  yourself,  please,  and  tell 
her  to  tell  the  boy  we've  got  a  letter  here  for 
him  from  his  father,  and  he  can  have  it  if  he  'U 
come  back." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  called  Mrs.  Holly,  over  her 
shoulder,  as  she  hurried  into  the  house.  In  an 
unbelievably  short  time  she  was  back,  her  face 
beaming. 

5o 


TWO  LETTERS 

"He's  started,  so  soon,"  she  nodded.  "He's 
crazy  with  joy,  Mollie  said.  He  even  left  part 
cf  his  breakfast,  he  was  in  such  a  hurry.  So  I 
guess  we'll  see  him  all  right." 

"Oh,  yes,  we'll  see  him  all  right,"  echoed 
Simeon  Holly  grimly.  "But  that  isn't  tell 
ing  what  we'll  do  with  him  when  we  do  see 
him." 

"  Oh,  well,  maybe  this  letter  of  his  will  help 
us  out  on  that,"  suggested  Higgins  soothingly. 
"Anyhow,  even  if  it  does  n't,  I  'm  not  worrying 
any.  I  guess  some  one  will  want  him  —  a  good 
healthy  boy  like  that." 

"Did  you  find  any  money  on  the  body?" 
asked  Streeter. 

"A  little  change  —  a  few  cents.  Nothing  to 
count.  If  the  boy's  letter  does  n't  tell  us  where 
any  of  their  folks  are,  it'll  be  up  to  the  town  to 
bury  him  all  right." 

"He  had  a  fiddle,  did  n't  he?  And  the  boy 
had  one,  too.  Would  n't  they  bring  anything?" 
Streeter' s  round  blue  eyes  gleamed  shrewdly. 

Higgins  gave  a  slow  shake  of  his  head. 

"Maybe  —  if  there  was  a  market  for  'em. 
But  who  'd  buy  'em?  There  ain't  a  soul  in  town 
plays  but  Jack  Gurnsey;  and  he's  got  one. 

5i 


JUST  DAVID 

Besides,  he's  sick,  and  got  all  he  can  do  to  buy 
bread  and  butter  for  him  and  his  sister  without 
taking  in  more  fiddles,  I  guess.  He  would  n't 
buy  'em.'* 

"Hm  —  m;  maybe  not,  maybe  not,"  grunted 
Streeter.  "An',  as  you  say,  he's  the  only  one 
that's  got  any  use  for  'em  here;  an'  like  enough 
they  ain't  worth  much,  anyway.  So  I  guess 't  is 
up  to  the  town  all  right." 

"Yes;  but  —  if  yer'll  take  it  from  me,"  — 
interrupted  Larson,  —  "you'll  be  wise  if  ye 
keep  still  before  the  boy.  It's  no  use  askirf  him 
anythin'.  We've  proved  that  fast  enough. 
An'  if  he  once  turns  'round  an'  begins  ter  ask 
you  questions,  yer  done  for!" 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  nodded  Higgins,  with 
a  quizzical  smile.  "And  as  long  as  questioning 
can't  do  any  good,  why,  we'll  just  keep  whist 
before  the  boy.  Meanwhile  I  wish  the  little 
rascal  would  hurry  up  and  get  here.  I  want  to 
see  the  inside  of  that  letter  to  him.  I  'm  relying 
on  that  being  some  help  to  unsnarl  this  tangle 
of  telling  who  they  are." 

"Well,  he's  started,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Holly, 
as  she  turned  back  into  the  house;  "so  I  guess 
he'll  get  here  if  you  wait  long  enough." 

52 


TWO  LETTERS 

"Oh,  yes,  he'll  get  here  if  we  wait  long 
enough,"  echoed  Simeon  Holly  again,  crustily. 

The  two  men  in  the  wagon  settled  themselves 
more  comfortably  in  their  seats,  and  Perry 
Larson,  after  a  half-uneasy,  half-apologetic 
glance  at  his  employer,  dropped  himself  onto 
the  bottom  step.  Simeon  Holly  had  already 
sat  down  stiffly  in  one  of  the  porch  chairs. 
Simeon  Holly  never  "dropped  himself"  any 
where.  Indeed,  according  to  Perry  Larson,  if 
there  were  a  hard  way  to  do  a  thing,  Simeon 
Holly  found  it  —  and  did  it.  The  fact  that, 
this  morning,  he  had  allowed,  and  was  still 
allowing,  the  sacred  routine  of  the  day's  work 
to  be  thus  interrupted,  for  nothing  more  import 
ant  than  the  expected  arrival  of  a  strolling  ur 
chin,  was  something  Larson  would  not  have 
believed  had  he  not  seen  it.  Even  now  he  was 
conscious  once  or  twice  of  an  involuntary  desire 
to  rub  his  eyes  to  make  sure  they  were  not 
deceiving  him. 

Impatient  as  the  waiting  men  were  for  the 
arrival  of  David,  they  were  yet  almost  surprised, 
so  soon  did  he  appear,  running  up  the  driveway. 

"Oh,  where  is  it,  please?"  he  panted.  "They 
said  you  had  a  letter  for  me  from  daddy!" 

53 


JUST  DAVID 

"You're  right,  sonny;  we  have.  And  here  it 
is,"  answered  Higgins  promptly,  holding  out 
the  folded  paper. 

Plainly  eager  as  he  was,  David  did  not  open 
the  note  till  he  had  first  carefully  set  down  the 
case  holding  his  violin ;  then  he  devoured  it  with 
eager  eyes. 

As  he  read,  the  four  men  watched  his  face. 
They  saw  first  the  quick  tears  that  had  to  be 
blinked  away.  Then  they  saw  the  radiant  glow 
that  grew  and  deepened  until  the  whole  boyish 
face  was  aflame  with  the  splendor  of  it.  They 
saw  the  shining  wonder  of  his  eyes,  too,  as  he 
looked  up  from  the  letter. 

"And  daddy  wrote  this  to  me  from  the  far 
country?"  he  breathed. 

Simeon  Holly  scowled.  Larson  choked  over  a 
stifled  chuckle.  William  Streeter  stared  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders;  but  Higgins  flushed  a 
dull  red. 

"No,  sonny,"  he  stammered.  "We  found  it 
on  the  —  er  —  I  mean,  it  —  er  —  your  father 
left  it  in  his  pocket  for  you,"  finished  the  man, 
a  little  explosively. 

A  swift  shadow  crossed  the  boy's  face. 

"Oh,  I  hoped  I'd  heard  — "  he  began.  Then 


TWO  LETTERS 

suddenly  he  stopped,  his  face  once  more  alight. 
"But  it's  'most  the  same  as  if  he  wrote  it  from 
there,  is  n't  it?  He  left  it  for  me,  and  he  told 
me  what  to  do." 

"What's  that,  what's  that?"  cried  Higgins, 
instantly  alert.  "Dz'rf  he  tell  you  what  to  do? 
Then,  let's  have  it,  so  we'll  know.  You  will  let 
us  read  it,  won't  you,  boy?" 

"Why,  y  —  yes,"  stammered  David,  holding 
it  out  politely,  but  with  evident  reluctance. 

"Thank  you,"  nodded  Higgins,  as  he  reached 
for  the  note. 

David's  letter  was  very  different  from  the 
other  one.  It  was  longer,  but  it  did  not  help 
much,  though  it  was  easily  read.  In  his  letter, 
in  spite  of  the  wavering  lines,  each  word  was 
formed  with  a  care  that  told  of  a  father's 
thought  for  the  young  eyes  that  would  read  it. 
It  was  written  on  two  of  the  notebook's  leaves, 
and  at  the  end  came  the  single  word  "Daddy." 

David,  my  boy  [read  Higgins  aloud],  in  the  far  coun 
try  I  am  waiting  for  ^ou.  Do  not  grieve,  for  that  will 
grieve  me.  I  shall  not  return,  but  some  day  you  will 
come  to  me,  your  violin  at  your  chin,  and  the  bow 
drawn  across  the  strings  to  greet  me.  See  that  it  tells 
me  of  the  beautiful  world  you  have  left  —  for  it  is  a 
beautiful  world,  David;  never  forget  that.  And  if 

55 


JUST  DAVID 

sometime  you  are  tempted  to  think  it  is  not  a  beautiful 
world,  just  remember  that  you  yourself  can  make  it/ 
beautiful  if  you  will. 

You  are  among  new  faces,  surrounded  by  things  and 
people  that  are  strange  to  you.  Some  of  them  you  will 
not  understand;  some  of  them  you  may  not  like.  But 
do  not  fear,  David,  and  do  not  plead  to  go  back  to 
the  hills.  Remember  this,  my  boy,  —  in  your  violin 
lie  all  the  things  you  long  for.  You  have  only  to  play, 
and  the  broad  skies  of  your  mountain  home  will  be 
over  you,  and  the  dear  friends  and  comrades  of  your 
mountain  forests  will  be  about  you. 

DADDY. 


"Gorry!  that's  worse  than  the  other," 
groaned  Higgins,  when  he  had  finished  the  note. 
"There's  actually  nothing  in  it!  Would  n't  you 
think  —  if  a  man  wrote  anything  at  such  a 
time  —  that  he'd  'a'  wrote  something  that  had 
some  sense  to  it  —  something  that  one  could 
get  hold  of,  and  find  out  who  the  boy  is?" 

There  was  no  answering  this.  The  assembled 
men  could  only  grunt  and  nod  in  agreement, 
which,  after  all,  was  no  real  help. 


CHAPTER  V 

DISCORDS 

THE  dead  man  found  in  Farmer  Holly's  bam 
created  a  decided  stir  in  the  village  of  Hinsdale. 
The  case  was  a  peculiar  one  for  many  reasons. 
First,  because  of  the  boy  —  Hinsdale  supposed 
it  knew  boys,  but  it  felt  inclined  to  change  its 
mind  after  seeing  this  one.  Second,  because  of 
the  circumstances.  The  boy  and  his  father  had 
entered  the  town  like  tramps,  yet  Higgins,  who 
talked  freely  of  his  having  given  the  pair  a 
"lift"  on  that  very  evening,  did  not  hesitate  to 
declare  that  he  did  not  believe  them  to  be  ordi 
nary  tramps  at  all. 

As  there  had  been  little  found  in  the  dead 
man's  pockets,  save  the  two  notes,  and  as  no 
body  could  be  found  who  wanted  the  violins, 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  but  to  turn 
the  body  over  to  the  town  for  burial.  Nothing 
was  said  of  this  to  David;  indeed,  as  little  as 
possible  was  said  to  David  about  anything 
after  that  morning  when  Higgins  had  given  him 
his  father's  letter.  At  that  time  the  men  had 


JUST  DAVID 

made  one  more  effort  to  "get  track  of  some 
thing,"  as  Higgins  had  despairingly  put  it. 
But  the  boy's  answers  to  their  questions  were 
anything  but  satisfying,  anything  but  helpful, 
and  were  often  most  disconcerting.  The  boy 
was,  in  fact,  regarded  by  most  of  the  men,  after 
that  morning,  as  being  "a  little  off";  and  was 
hence  let  severely  alone. 

Who  the  man  was  the  town  authorities 
certainly  did  not  know,  neither  could  they 
apparently  find  out.  His  name,  as  written  by 
himself,  was  unreadable.  His  notes  told  noth 
ing;  his  son  could  tell  little  more  —  of  conse 
quence.  A  report,  to  be  sure,  did  come  from  the 
village,  far  up  the  mountain,  that  such  a  man 
and  boy  had  lived  in  a  hut  that  was  almost  in 
accessible;  but  even  this  did  not  help  solve  the 
mystery. 

David  was  left  at  the  Holly  farmhouse, 
though  Simeon  Holly  mentally  declared  that 
he  should  lose  no  time  in  looking  about  for 
some  one  to  take  the  boy  away. 

On  that  first  day  Higgins,  picking  up  the 
reins  preparatory  to  driving  from  the  yard, 
had  said,  with  a  nod  of  his  head  toward 
David :  — 

58 


DISCORDS 

"Well,  how  about  it,  Holly?  Shall  we  leave 
him  here  till  we  find  somebody  that  wants 
him?" 

"Why,  y  —  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  hesitated 
Simeon  Holly,  with  uncor  lial  accent. 

But  his  wife,  hovering  in  the  background, 
hastened  forward  at  once. 

"Oh,  yes;  yes,  indeed,"  she  urged.  "I'm 
sure  he  —  he  won't  be  a  mite  of  trouble,  Sim 
eon." 

"Perhaps  not,"  conceded  Simeon  Holly 
darkly.  "Neither,  it  is  safe  to  say,  will  he  be 
anything  else  —  worth  anything." 

"That's  it  exactly,"  spoke  up  Streeter,  from 
his  seat  in  the  wagon.  "If  I  thought  he'd  be 
worth  his  salt,  now,  I'd  take  him  myself;  but 
—  well,  look  at  him  this  minute,"  he  finished, 
with  a  disdainful  shrug. 

David,  on  the  lowest  step,  was  very  evi 
dently  not  hearing  a  word  of  what  was  being 
said.  With  his  sensitive  face  illumined,  he  was 
again  poring  over  his  father's  letter. 

Something  in  the  sudden  quiet  cut  through 
his  absorption  as  the  noisy  hum  of  voices  had 
not  been  able  to  do,  and  he  raised  his  head. 
His  eyes  were  starlike. 


JUST  DAVID 

"I'm  so  glad  father  told  me  what  to  do,"  he 
breathed.  "It'll  be  easier  now." 

Receiving  no  answer  from  the  somewhat 
awkwardly  silent  men,  he  went  on,  as  if  in  ex 
planation  :  — 

"You  know  he's  waiting  for  me  —  in  the  far 
country,  I  mean.  He  said  he  was.  And  when 
you've  got  somebody  waiting,  you  don't  mind 
staying  behind  yourself  for  a  little  while, 
Besides,  I  ve  got  to  stay  to  find  out  about  the 
beautiful  world,  you  know,  so  I  can  tell  him, 
when  I  go.  That's  the  way  I  used  to  do  back 
home  on  the  mountain,  you  see,  —  tell  him 
about  things.  Lots  of  days  we'd  go  to  walk; 
then,  when  we  got  home,  he'd  have  me  tell 
,  him,  with  my  violin,  what  I  'd  seen.  And  now 
*  he  says  I'm  to  stay  here." 

"Here!"  It  was  the  quick,  stern  voice  of 
Simeon  Holly. 

"Yes,"  nodded  David  earnestly;  "to  learn 
about  the  beautiful  world.  Don't  you  remem 
ber?  And  he  said  I  was  not  to  want  to  go  back 
to  my  mountains;  that  I  would  not  need  to, 
anyway,  because  the  mountains,  and  the  sky, 
and  the  birds  and  squirrels  and  brooks  are 
really  in  my  violin,  you  know.  And  — "  But 

60 


DISCORDS 

with  an  angry  frown  Simeon  Holly  stalked 
away,  motioning  Larson  to  follow  him;  and 
with  a  merry  glance  and  a  low  chuckle  Higgins 
turned  his  horse  about  and  drove  from  the 
yard.  A  moment  later  David  found  himself 
alone  with  Mrs.  Holly,  who  was  looking  at  him 
with  wistful,  though  slightly  fearful  eyes.  « 

"  Did  you  have  all  the  breakfast  you  wanted?  " 
she  asked  timidly,  resorting,  as  she  had  re 
sorted  the  night  before,  to  the  everyday  things 
of  her  world  in  the  hope  that  they  might  make 
this  strange  little  boy  seem  less  wild,  and  more 
nearly  human. 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you."  David's  eyes  had 
strayed  back  to  the  note  in  his  hand.  Sud 
denly  he  looked  up,  a  new  something  in  his 
eyes.  "What  is  it  to  be  a  —  a  tramp?"  he 
asked.  "Those  men  said  daddy  and  I  were 
tramps." 

"A  tramp?  Oh  —  er  —  why,  just  a  —  a 
tramp,"  stammered  Mrs.  Holly.  "But  never 
mind  that,  David.  I  —  I  would  n't  think  any 
more  about  it." 

"But  what  is  a  tramp?"  persisted  David, 
a  smouldering  fire  beginning  to  show  in  his 
eyes.  "Because  if  they  meant  thieves  — " 

61 


JUST  DAVID 

"No,  no,  David,*'  interrupted  Mrs.  Holly 
soothingly.  "They  never  meant  thieves  at 
all." 

"Then,  what  is  it  to  be  a  tramp?" 

"Why,  it's  just  to  —  to  tramp,"  explained 
Mrs.  Holly  desperately;  —  "walk  along  the 
road  from  one  town  to  another,  and  —  and  not 
live  in  a  house  at  all." 

"Oh!"  David's  face  cleared.  "That's  all 
right,  then.  I  'd  love  to  be  a  tramp,  and  so  'd 
father.  And  we  were  tramps,  sometimes,  too, 
'cause  lots  of  times,  in  the  summer,  we  did  n't 
stay  in  the  cabin  hardly  any  —  just  lived  out 
of  doors  all  day  and  all  night.  Why,  I  never.  > 
knew  really  what  the  pine  trees  were  saying 
till  I  heard  them  at  night,  lying  under  them. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  You  Ve  heard  them, 
have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  At  night  ?  Pine  trees  ?  "  stammered  Mrs. 
Holly  helplessly. 

"Yes.  Oh,  have  n't  you  ever  heard  them  at 
light?"  cried  the  boy,  in  his  voice  a  very  gen 
uine  sympathy  as  for  a  grievous  loss.  "Why, 
then,  if  you  've  only  heard  them  daytimes,  you 
don't  know  a  bit  what  pine  trees  really  are. 
But  I  can  tell  you.  Listen !  This  is  what  they 

to 


DISCORDS 

say,"  finished  the  boy,  whipping  his  violin 
from  its  case,  and,  after  a  swift  testing  of  the 
strings,  plunging  into  a  weird,  haunting  little 
melody. 

In  the  doorway,  Mrs.  Holly,  bewildered,  yet 
bewitched,  stood  motionless,  her  eyes  half- 
fearfully,  half-longingly  fixed  on  David's  glori 
fied  face.  She  was  still  in  the  same  position 
when  Simeon  Holly  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  house. 

"Well,  Ellen,"  he  began,  with  quiet  scorns 
after  a  moment's  stern  watching  of  the  scene 
before  him,  "have  you  nothing  better  to  do 
this  morning  than  to  listen  to  this  minstrel 
fellow?" 

"Oh,  Simeon!  Why,  yes,  of  course.  I  —  I 
forgot  —  what  I  was  doing,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Holly,  flushing  guiltily  from  neck  to  brow  as 
she  turned  and  hurried  into  the  house. 

David,  on  the  porch  steps,  seemed  to  have 
heard  nothing.  He  was  still  playing,  his  rapt 
gaze  on  the  distant  sky-line,  when  Simeor 
Holly  turned  upon  him  with  disapproving 
eyes. 

"See  here,  boy,  can't  you  do  anything  but 
fiddle?"  he  demanded.  Then,  as  David  still 

63 


JUST  DAVID 

continued  to  play,  he  added  sharply:  "Did  n't 
you  hear  me,  boy?" 

The  music  stopped  abruptly.  David  looked 
up  with  the  slightly  dazed  air  of  one  who  has 
been  summoned  as  from  another  world. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"I  did  —  twice.  I  asked  if  you  never  did 
anything  but  play  that  fiddle." 

"You  mean  at  home?"  David's  face  ex 
pressed  mild  wonder  without  a  trace  of  anger 
or  resentment.  "Why,  yes,  of  course.  I  could 
n't  play  all  the  time,  you  know.  I  had  to  eat 
and  sleep  and  study  my  books;  and  every  day 
we  went  to  walk  —  like  tramps,  as  you  call 
them,"  he  elucidated,  his  face  brightening  with 
obvious  delight  at  being  able,  for  once,  to  ex 
plain  matters  in  terms  that  he  felt  sure  would 
be  understood. 

"Tramps,  indeed!"  muttered  Simeon  Holly, 
under  his  breath.  Then,  sharply:  "Did  you 
never  perform  any  useful  labor,  boy?  Were 
your  days  always  spent  in  this  ungodly  idle 
ness?" 

Again  David  frowned  in  mild  wonder. 

"  Oh,  I  was  n't  idle,  sir.  Father  said  I  must 
pever  be  that.  He  said  every  instrument  was 

64 


DISCORDS 

needed  in  the  great  Orchestra  of  Life;  and  that 

I  was  one,  you  know,  even  if  I  was  only  a  little 

boy.  And  he  said  if  I  kept  still  and  did  n't  do 

/my  part,  the  harmony  would  n't  be  complete,, 

-and— " 

"Yes,  yes,  but  never  mind  that  now,  boy," 
interrupted  Simeon  Holly,  with  harsh  impa 
tience.  "I  mean,  did  he  never  set  you  to  work 
—  real  work?" 

"Work?"  David  meditated  again.  Then 
suddenly  his  face  cleared.  "Oh,  yes,  sir,  he  said 
I  had  a  beautiful  work  to  do,  and  that  it  was 
waiting  for  me  out  in  the  world.  That's  why 
we  came  down  from  the  mountain,  you  know, 
to  find  it.  Is  that  what  you  mean?  " 

"Well,  no,"  retorted  the  man,  "I  can't  say 
that  it  was.  I  was  referring  to  work  —  real 
work  about  the  house.  Did  you  never  do  any 
of  that?" 

David  gave  a  relieved  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  mean  getting  the  meals  and  tidying 
up  the  house,"  he  replied.  "Oh,  yes,  I  did  that 
with  father,  only"  -his  face  grew  wistful  — 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  did  n't  do  it  very  well.  My  bacon 
was  never  as  nice  and  crisp  as  father's,  and  the 
fire  was  always  spoiling  my  potatoes." 

65 


JUST  DAVID 

"Humph!  bacon  and  potatoes,  indeed!" 
scorned  Simeon  Holly.  "Well,  boy,  we  call 
that  women's  work  down  here.  We  set  men  to 
something  else.  Do  you  see  that  woodpile  by 
the  shed  door?*' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  good.  In  the  kitchen  you'll  find  an 
empty  woodbox.  Do  you  think  you  could  fill  it 
with  wood  from  that  woodpile?  You'll  find 
plenty  of  short,  small  sticks  already  chopped." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I'd  like  to,"  nodded  David, 
hastily  but  carefully  tucking  his  violin  into  its 
case.  A  minute  later  he  had  attacked  the  wood 
pile  with  a  will;  and  Simeon  Holly,  after  a 
sharply  watchful  glance,  had  turned  away. 

But  the  woodbox,  after  all,  was  not  filled. 
At  least,  it  was  not  filled  immediately;  for  at 
the  very  beginning  of  gathering  the  second 
armful  of  wood,  David  picked  up  a  stick  that 
had  long  lain  in  one  position  on  the  ground, 
thereby  disclosing  sundry  and  diverse  crawling 
things  of  many  legs,  which  filled  David's  soul 
with  delight,  and  drove  away  every  thought  of 
the  empty  woodbox. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  some  strength  and 
more  patience,  and  still  more  tune,  to  overturn 

66 


DISCORDS 

other  and  bigger  sticks,  to  find  other  and  big 
ger  of  the  many-legged,  many-jointed  crea 
tures.  One,  indeed,  was  so  very  wonderful  that 
David,  with  a  whoop  of  glee,  summoned  Mrs. 
Holly  from  the  shed  doorway  to  come  and 
see. 

So  urgent  was  his  plea  that  Mrs.  Holly  came 
with  hurried  steps  —  but  she  went  away  with 
steps  even  more  hurried;  and  David,  sitting 
back  on  his  woodpile  seat,  was  left  to  wonder 
why  she  should  scream  and  shudder  and  say 
"Ugh-h-h!"  at  such  a  beautiful,  interesting 
thing  as  was  this  little  creature  who  lived  in  her 
woodpile. 

Even  then  David  did  not  think  of  that  empty 
woodbox  waiting  behind  the  kitchen  stove. 
This  time  it  was  a  butterfly,  a  big  black  butter 
fly  banded  with  gold;  and  it  danced  and  flut 
tered  all  through  the  back  yard  and  out  into 
the  garden,  David  delightedly  following  with 
soft-treading  steps,  and  movements  that  would 
not  startle.  From  the  garden  to  the  orchard, 
and  from  the  orchard  back  to  the  garden 
danced  the  butterfly  —  and  David;  and  in  the 
garden,  near  the  house,  David  came  upon  Mrs. 
Holly's  pansy-bed.  Even  the  butterfly  was 

67 


JUST  DAVID 

forgotten  then,  for  down  in  the  path  by  the 
pansy-bed  David  dropped  to  his  knees  in  ver 
itable  worship. 

"Why,  you're  just  like  little  people,"  he 
cried  softly.  "You've  got  faces;  and  some  of 
you  are  happy,  and  some  of  you  are  sad.  And 
you  —  you  big  spotted  yellow  one  —  you're 
laughing  at  me.  Oh,  I  'm  going  to  play  you  - 
all  of  you.  You'll  make  such  a  pretty  song, 
you're  so  different  from  each  other!"  And 
David  leaped  lightly  to  his  feet  and  ran  around 
to  the  side  porch  for  his  violin. 

Five  minutes  later,  Simeon  Holly,  coming 
into  the  kitchen,  heard  the  sound  of  a  violin 
through  the  open  window.  At  the  same  mo 
ment  his  eyes  fell  on  the  woodbox,  empty  save 
for  a  few  small  sticks  at  the  bottom.  With  an 
angry  frown  he  strode  through  the  outer  door 
and  around  the  corner  of  the  house  to  the  gar 
den.  At  once  then  he  came  upon  David,  sitting 
Turk-fashion  in  the  middle  of  the  path  before 
the  pansy-bed,  his  violin  at  his  chin,  and  his 
whole  face  aglow. 

"Well,  boy,  is  this  the  way  you  fill  the  wood- 
box?  "  demanded  the  man  crisply. 

David  shook  his  head. 
68 


DISCORDS 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  this  is  n't  filling  the  woodbox,*- 
he  laughed,  softening  his  music,  but  not  stop 
ping  it.  "Did  you  think  that  was  what  I  was 
playing?  It's  the  flowers  here  that  I'm  playing 
—  the  little  faces,  like  people,  you  know.  See, 
this  is  that  big  yellow  one  over  there  that's 
laughing,"  he  finished,  letting  the  music  under 
his  fingers  burst  into  a  gay  little  melody. 

Simeon  Holly  raised  an  imperious  hand ;  and 
at  the  gesture  David  stopped  his  melody  in  the 
middle  of  a  run,  his  eyes  flying  wide  open  in 
plain  wonderment. 

"You  mean  —  I 'm  not  playing  —  right?" 
he  asked. 

"I'm  not  talking  of  your  playing,"  retorted 
Simeon  Holly  severely.  "I'm  talking  of  that 
woodbox  I  asked  you  to  fill." 

David's  face  cleared. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  I'll  go  and  do  it,"  he  nodded, 
getting  cheerfully  to  his  feet. 

"But  I  told  you  to  do  it  before." 

David's  eyes  grew  puzzled  again. 

"I  know,  sir,  and  I  started  to,"  he  answered, 
with  the  obvious  patience  of  one  who  finds  him 
self  obliged  to  explain  what  should  be  a  self- 
evident  fact;  "but  I  saw  so  many  beautiful 


JUST  DAVID 

things,  one  after  another,  and  when  I  found 
these  funny  little  flower-people  I  just  had  to 
play  them.  Don't  you  see?" 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do,  when  I'd  already 
told  you  to  fill  the  woodbox,"  rejoined  the  man, 
with  uncompromising  coldness. 

"You  mean  —  even  then  that  I  ought  to 
have  filled  the  woodbox  first?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

David's  eyes  flew  wide  open  again. 

"But  my  song  —  I'd  have  lost  it!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "And  father  said  always  when  a  song 
came  to  me  to  play  it  at  once.  Songs  are  like 
the  mists  of  the  morning  and  the  rainbows,  you 
know,  and  they  don't  stay  with  you  long.  You 
just  have  to  catch  them  quick,  before  they  go. 
Now,  don't  you  see?" 

But  Simeon  Holly,  with  a  despairingly  scorn 
ful  gesture,  had  turned  away;  and  David,  after 
a  moment's  following  him  with  wistful  eyes, 
soberly  walked  toward  the  kitchen  door.  Two 
minutes  later  he  was  industriously  working  at 
his  task  of  filling  the  woodbox. 

That  for  David  the  affair  was  not  satisfac 
torily  settled  was  evidenced  by  his  thoughtful 
countenance  and  preoccupied  air,  however; 

79 


DISCORDS 

nor  were  matters  helped  any  by  the  question 
David  put  to  Mr.  Holly  just  before  dinner. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "that  because  I 
did  n't  fill  the  woodbox  right  away,  I  was  being 
a  discord?" 

"You  were  what?"  demanded  the  amazeu 
Simeon  Holly. 

"Being  a  discord  —  playing  out  of  tune,  you 
know,"  explained  David,  with  patient  earnest 
ness.  "Father  said-  But  again  Simeon 
Holly  had  turned  irritably  away;  and  David 
was  left  with  his  perplexed  questions  still 
unanswered. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NUISANCES,   NECESSARY  AND   OTHERWISE 

FOR  some  time  after  dinner,  that  first  day, 
David  watched  Mrs.  Holly  in  silence  while  she 
cleared  the  table  and  began  to  wash  the  dishes. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  —  help?"  he  asked  at 
last,  a  little  wistfully. 

Mrs.  Holly,  with  a  dubious  glance  at  the 
boy's  brown  little  hands,  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  don't.  No,  thank  you,"  she  amended 
her  answer. 

For  another  sixty  seconds  David  was  silent; 
then,  still  more  wistfully,  he  asked :  — 

"Are  all  these  things  you've  been  doing  all 
day  'useful  labor'?" 

Mrs.  Holly  lifted  dripping  hands  from  the 
dishpan  and  held  them  suspended  for  an 
amazed  instant. 

"Are  they —  Why,  of  course  they  are! 
What  a  silly  question !  What  put  that  idea  into 
your  head,  child?" 

"Mr.  Holly;  and  you  see  it's  so  different 
from  what  father  used  to  call  them." 

72 


NUISANCES 

"Different?" 

"Yes.  He  said  they  were  a  necessary  nui 
sance,  —  dishes,  and  getting  meals,  and  clear- 
ing  up,  —  and  he  did  n't  do  half  as  many  of, 
them  as  you  do,  either." 

"Nuisance,  indeed!"  Mrs.  Holly  resumed 
her  dishwashing  with  some  asperity.  "Well,  I 
should  think  that  might  have  been  just  about 
like  him." 

"Yes,  it  was.  He  was  always  that  way," 
nodded  David  pleasantly.  Then,  after  a  mo 
ment,  he  queried:  "But  are  n't  you  going  to 
walk  at  all  to-day?" 

"To  walk?  Where?" 

"Why,  through  the  woods  and  fields  —  any 
where." 

"Walking  in  the  woods,  now  — just  walking? 
Land's  sake,  boy,  I've  got  something  else  to 
do!" 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,  is  n't  it?"  David's 
face  expressed  sympathetic  regret.  "And  it's 
such  a  nice  day!  Maybe  it'll  rain  by  to 
morrow." 

"Maybe  it  will,"  retorted  Mrs.  Holly,  with 
slightly  uplifted  eyebrows  and  an  expressive 
glance.  "But  whether  it  does  or  does  n't  won't 

73 


JUST  DAVID 

make  any  difference  in  my  going  to  walk,  I 
guess." 

"Oh,  won't  it?"  beamed  David,  his  face 
changing.  "I'm  so  glad!  I  don't  mind  the 
rain,  either.  Father  and  I  used  to  go  in  the 
rain  lots  of  times,  only,  of  course,  we  could  n't 
take  our  violins  then,  so  we  used  to  like  the 
pleasant  days  better.  But  there  are  some  things 
you  find  on  rainy  days  that  you  could  n't  find 
any  other  time,  are  n't  there?  The  dance  of  the 
drops  on  the  leaves,  and  the  rush  of  the  rain 
when  the  wind  gets  behind  it.  Don't  you  love 
to  feel  it,  out  in  the  open  spaces,  where  the  wind 
just  gets  a  good  chance  to  push?" 

Mrs.  Holly  stared.  Then  she  shivered  and 
threw  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  hopeless 
abandonment. 

"Land's  sake,  boy!"  she  ejaculated  feebly, 
as  she  turned  back  to  her  work. 

From  dishes  to  sweeping,  and  from  sweeping 
to  dusting,  hurried  Mrs.  Holly,  going  at 
last  into  the  somber  parlor,  always  carefully 
guarded  from  sun  and  air.  Watching  her, 
mutely,  David  trailed  behind,  his  eyes  staring 
a  little  as  they  fell  upon  the  multitude  of 
objects  that  parlor  contained:  the  haircloth 

74 


NUISANCES 

chairs,  the  long  sofa,  the  marble-topped  table, 
the  curtains,  cushions,  spreads,  and  "throws," 
the  innumerable  mats  and  tidies,  the  hair- 
wreath,  the  wax  flowers  under  their  glass  dome, 
the  dried  grasses,  the  marvelous  bouquets  of 
scarlet,  green,  and  purple  everlastings,  the 
stones  and  shells  and  many-sized,  many-shaped 
vases  arranged  as  if  in  line  of  battle  along  the 
corner  shelves. 

"Y  —  yes,  you  may  come  in,"  called  Mrs. 
Holly,  glancing  back  at  the  hesitating  boy  in 
the  doorway.  "But  you  must  n't  touch  any 
thing.  I'm  going  to  dust." 

"But  I  have  n't  seen  this  room  before," 
ruminated  David. 

"Well,  no,"  deigned  Mrs.  Holly,  with  just  a 
touch  of  superiority.  "We  don't  use  this  room 
common,  little  boy,  nor  the  bedroom  there, 
either.  This  is  the  company  room,  for  minis 
ters  and  funerals,  and — "  She  stopped  hast 
ily,  with  a  quick  look  at  David;  but  the  boy  did 
not  seem  to  have  heard. 

"And  doesn't  anybody  live  here  in  this 
house,  but  just  you  and  Mr.  Holly,  and  Mr. 
Perry  Larson?"  he  asked,  still  looking  wonder- 
ingly  about  him. 

75 


JUST  DAVID 

"No,  not  —  now."  Mrs.  Holly  drew  in  her 
breath  with  a  little  catch,  and  glanced  at  the 
framed  portrait  of  a  little  boy  on  the  wall. 

"But  you've  got  such  a  lot  of  rooms  an 
and  things,"  remarked  David.  "Why,  daddy 
and  I  only  had  two  rooms,  and  not  hardly  any 
things.  It  was  so  —  different,  you  know,  m  my 
home." 

"I  should  say  it  might  have  been!"  Mrs. 
Holly  began  to  dust  hurriedly,  but  carefully. 
Her  voice  still  carried  its  hint  of  superiority. 

" Oh,  yes,"  smiled  David.  "But  you  say  you 
don't  use  this  room  much,  so  that  helps." 

"Helps!"  In  her  stupefaction  Mrs.  Holly 
stopped  her  work  and  stared. 

"Why,  yes.  I  mean,  you've  got  so  many 
other  rooms  you  can  live  in  those.  You  don't 
have  to  live  in  here." 

"'Have  to  live  in  here'!"  ejaculated  the 
woman,  still  too  uncomprehending  to  be  any 
thing  but  amazed. 

"Yes.  But  do  you  have  to  keep  all  these 
things,  and  clean  them  and  clean  them,  like 
this,  every  day?  Could  n't  you  give  them  to 
somebody,  or  throw  them  away?" 

"Throw  —  these  —  things  —  away ! "   With 
76 


NUISANCES 

a  wild  sweep  of  her  arms,  the  horrified  woman 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  encompass  in  a  protect 
ive  embrace  each  last  endangered  treasure  of 
mat  and  tidy.  "Boy,  are  you  crazy?  These 
things  are  —  are  valuable.  They  cost  money, 
and  time  and  —  and  labor.  Don't  you  know 
beautiful  things  when  you  see  them?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  love  beautiful  things,"  smiled 
David,  with  unconsciously  rude  emphasis. 
"And  up  on  the  mountain  I  had  them  always. 
There  was  the  sunrise,  and  the  sunset,  and  the 
moon  and  the  stars,  and  my  Silver  Lake,  and 
the  cloud-boats  that  sailed  — " 

But  Mrs.  Holly,  with  a  vexed  gesture, 
stopped  him. 

"Never  mind,  little  boy.  I  might  have 
known  —  brought  up  as  you  have  been.  Of 
course  you  could  not  appreciate  such  things  as 
these.  Throw  them  away,  indeed!"  And  she 
fell  to  work  again ;  but  this  time  her  fingers  car 
ried  a  something  in  their  touch  that  was  almost 
like  the  caress  a  mother  might  bestow  upon  an1 
aggrieved  child. 

David,  vaguely  disturbed  and  uncomfortable, 
watched  her  with  troubled  eyes;  then,  apolo 
getically,  he  explained :  — 

77 


JUST  DAVID 

"It  was  only  that  I  thought  if  you  did  n't 
have  to  clean  so  many  of  these  things,  you  could 
maybe  go  to  walk  more  —  to-day,  and  other 
days,  you  know.  You  said  —  you  did  n't  have 
time,"  he  reminded  her. 

But  Mrs.  Holly  only  shook  her  head  and 
sighed :  — 

"Well,  well,  never  mind,  little  boy.  I  dare 
say  you  meant  all  right.  You  could  n't  under 
stand,  of  course." 

And  David,  after  another  moment's  wistful 
eyeing  of  the  caressing  fingers,  turned  about 
and  wandered  out  onto  the  side  porch.  A  min 
ute  later,  having  seated  himself  on  the  porch 
steps,  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket  two  small 
pieces  of  folded  paper.  And  then,  through 
tear-dimmed  eyes,  he  read  once  more  his  fa 
ther's  letter. 

"He  said  I  mustn't  grieve,  for  that  would 
grieve  him,"  murmured  the  boy,  after  a  time, 
his  eyes  on  the  far-away  hills.  "And  he  said 
if  I'd  play,  my  mountains  would  come  to  me 
here,  and  I'd  really  be  at  home  up  there.  He 
said  in  my  violin  were  all  those  things  I'm 
wanting  —  so  bad!" 

With  a  little  choking  breath,  David  tucked 
78 


. 

> 


1  BUT  MY  SONG -I  'D  HAVE  LOST  IT! ' 


NUISANCES 

the  note  back  into  his  pocket  and  reached  for 
his  violin. 

Some  time  later,  Mrs.  Holly,  dusting  the 
chairs  in  the  parlor,  stopped  her  work,  tiptoed 
to  the  door,  and  listened  breathlessly.  When 
she  turned  back,  still  later,  to  her  work,  her 
eyes  were  wet. 

"I  wonder  why,  when  he  plays,  I  always  get 
to  thinking  of  —  John,"  she  sighed  to  herself, 
as  she  picked  up  her  dusting-cloth. 

After  supper  that  night,  Simeon  Holly  and 
his  wife  again  sat  on  the  kitchen  porch,  resting 
from  the  labor  of  the  day.  Simeon's  eyes  were 
closed.  His  wife's  were  on  the  dim  outlines  of 
the  shed,  the  barn,  the  road,  or  a  passing  horse 
and  wagon.  David,  sitting  on  the  steps,  was 
watching  the  moon  climb  higher  and  higher 
above  the  tree-tops.  After  a  time  he  slipped  into 
the  house  and  came  out  with  his  violin. 

At  the  first  long-drawn  note  of  sweetness, 
Simeon  Holly  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  up,  stern- 
lipped.  But  his  wife  laid  a  timid  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Don't  say  anything,  please,"  she  entreated 
softly.  " Let  him  play,  just  for  to-night.  He's 
lonesome  —  poor  little  fellow."  And  Simeon 

79 


JUST  DAVID 

Holly,  with  a  frowning  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
sat  back  in  his  chair. 

Later,  it  was  Mrs.  Holly  herself  who  stopped 
the  music  by  saying:  "Gome,  David,  it's  bed 
time  for  little  boys.  I  '11  go  upstairs  with  you." 
And  she  led  the  way  into  the  house  and 
lighted  the  candle  for  him. 

Upstairs,  in  the  little  room  over  the  kitchen, 
David  found  himself  once  more  alone.  As  be 
fore,  the  little  yellow-white  nightshirt  lay  over 
the  chair-back;  and  as  before,  Mrs.  Holly  had 
brushed  away  a  tear  as  she  had  placed  it  there. 
As  before,  too,  the  big  four-posted  bed  loomed 
tall  and  formidable  in  the  corner.  But  this 
time  the  coverlet  and  sheet  were  turned  back 
invitingly  —  Mrs.  Holly  had  been  much  dis 
turbed  to  find  that  David  had  slept  on  the 
floor  the  night  before. 

Once  more,  with  his  back  carefully  turned 
toward  the  impaled  bugs  and  moths  on  the 
wall,  David  undressed  himself.  Then,  before 
blowing  out  the  candle,  he  went  to  the  window 
kneeled  down,  and  looked  up  at  the  moon 
through  the  trees. 

David  was  sorely  puzzled.  He  was  beginning 
to  wonder  just  what  was  to  become  of  himself. 

80 


NUISANCES 

His  father  had  said  that  out  in  the  world  there 
was  a  beautiful  work  for  him  to  do;  but  what 
was  it?  How  was  he  to  find  it?  Or  how  was  he 
to  do  it  if  he  did  find  it?  And  another  thing; 
where  was  he  to  live?  Could  he  stay  where  he 
was?  It  was  not  home,  to  be  sure;  but  there 
was  the  little  room  over  the  kitchen  where  he 
might  sleep,  and  there  was  the  kind  woman  who 
smiled  at  him  sometimes  with  the  sad,  far-away 
look  in  her  eyes  that  somehow  hurt.  He  would 
not  like,  now,  to  leave  her  — with  daddy  gone. 

There  were  the  gold-pieces,  too ;  and  concern 
ing  these  David  was  equally  puzzled.  What 
should  he  do  with  them?  He  did  not  need  them 
—  the  kind  woman  was  giving  him  plenty  of 
food,  so  that  he  did  not  have  to  go  to  the  store 
and  buy;  and  there  was  nothing  else,  appar 
ently,  that  he  could  use  them  for.  They  were 
heavy,  and  disagreeable  to  carry;  yet  he  did 
not  like  to  throw  them  away,  nor  to  let  anybody 
know  that  he  had  them:  he  had  been  called  a 
thief  just  for  one  little  piece,  and  what  would 
they  say  if  they  knew  he  had  all  those  others? 

David  remembered  now,  suddenly,  that  his 
father  had  said  to  hide  them  —  to  hide  them 
until  he  needed  them.  David  was  relieved  at 

81 


JUST   DA;VID 

once.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  before? 
He  knew  just  the  place,  too,  —  the  little  cup 
board  behind  the  chimney  there  in  this  very 
room!  And  with  a  satisfied  sigh,  David  got  to 
his  feet,  gathered  all  the  little  yellow  disks  from 
his  pockets,  and  tucked  them  well  out  of  sight 
behind  the  piles  of  books  on  the  cupboard 
shelves.  There,  too,  he  hid  the  watch;  but  the 
little  miniature  of  the  angel-mother  he  sKpped 
back  into  one  of  his  pockets. 

David's  second  morning  at  the  farmhouse 
was  not  unlike  the  first,  except  that  this  time, 
when  Simeon  Holly  asked  him  to  fill  the  wood- 
box,  David  resolutely  ignored  every  enticing 
bug  and  butterfly,  and  kept  rigorously  to  the 
task  before  him  until  it  was  done. 

He  was  in  the  kitchen  when,  just  before  din 
ner,  Perry  Larson  came  into  the  room  with  a 
worried  frown  on  his  face. 

"Mis'  Holly,  would  ye  mind  just  steppin'  to 
the  side  door?  There's  a  woman  an'  a  little  boy 
there,  an'  somethin'  ails  'em.  She  can't  talk 
English,  an'  I'm  blest  if  I  can  make  head  nor 
tail  out  of  the  lingo  she  does  talk.  But  maybe 
you  can." 

82 


NUISANCES 

"Why,  Perry,  I  don't  know — "  began  Mrs. 
Holly.  But  she  turned  at  once  toward  the  door. 

On  the  porch  steps  stood  a  very  pretty,  but 
frightened-looking  young  woman  with  a  boy 
perhaps  ten  years  old  at  her  side.  Upon  catch-, 
ing  sight  of  Mrs.  Holly  she  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  unintelligible  words,  supplemented  by  nu 
merous  and  vehement  gestures. 

Mrs.  Holly  shrank  back,  and  cast  appealing 
eyes  toward  her  husband  who  at  that  moment 
had  come  across  the  yard  from  the  barn. 

"Simeon,  can  you  tell  what  she  wants?'* 

At  sight  of  the  newcomer  on  the  scene,  the 
strange  woman  began  again,  with  even  more 
volubility. 

"No,"  said  Simeon  Holly,  after  a  moment's 
scowling  scrutiny  of  the  gesticulating  woman. 
"She's  talking  French,  I  think.  And  she  wants 
—  something." 

"Gosh!  I  should  say  she  did,"  muttered 
Perry  Larson.  "An'  whatever 't  is,  she  wants  it 
powerful  bad." 

"Are  you  hungry?"  questioned  Mrs.  Holly 
timidly. 

"  Can't  you  speak  English  at  all?  "  demanded 
Simeon  Holly. 

83 


JUST  DAVID 

The  woman  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  the  piteous,  pleading  eyes  of  the  stranger 
in  the  strange  land  who  cannot  understand  or 
make  others  understand.  She  had  turned  away 
with  a  despairing  shake  of  her  head,  when  sud 
denly  she  gave  a  wild  cry  of  joy  and  wheeled 
about,  her  whole  face  alight.  jxx 

The  Hollys  and  Perry  Larson  saw  then  that 
David  had  come  out  onto  the  porch  and  was 
speaking  to  the  woman  —  and  his  words  were 
just  as  unintelligible  as  the  woman's  had  been. 

Mrs.  Holly  and  Perry  Larson  stared.  Simeon 
Holly  interrupted  David  with  a  sharp  — 

"Do  you,  then,  understand  this  woman, 
boy?" 

"Why,  yes!  Did  n't  you?  She's  lost  her  way, 
and  — "  But  the  woman  had  hurried  forward 
and  was  pouring  her  story  into  David's  ears. 

At  its  conclusion  David  turned  to  find  the 
look  of  stupefaction  still  on  the  others'  faces. 

"Well,  what  does  she  want?"  asked  Simeon 
Holly  crisply. 

"  She  wants  to  find  the  way  to  Frangois  La- 
velle's  house.  He's  her  husband's  brother.  She 
came  in  on  the  train  this  morning.  Her  husband 
stopped  off  a  minute  somewhere,  she  says, 

84 


NUISANCES 

and  got  left  behind.  He  could  talk  English,  but 
she  can't.  She's  only  been  in  this  country  a 
week.  She  came  from  France." 

"Gorry!   Won't  ye  listen  ter  that,  now?' 
cried  Perry  Larson  admiringly.    "Reads  her 
just  like  a  book,  don't  he?  There's  a  French 
family  over  in  West  Hinsdale  —  two  of  'em,  I 
think.  What '11  ye  bet 't  ain't  one  o'  them?" 

"Very  likely,"  acceded  Simeon  Holly,  his 
eyes  bent  disapprovingly  on  David's  face.  It 
was  plain  to  be  seen  that  Simeon  Holly's  atten 
tion  was  occupied  by  David,  not  the  woman. 

"An',  say,  Mr.  Holly,"  resumed  Perry  Lar 
son,  a  little  excitedly,  "you  know  I  was  goin* 
over  ter  West  Hinsdale  in  a  day  or  two  ter  see 
Harlow  about  them  steers.  Why  can't  I  go  this 
afternoon  an'  tote  her  an'  the  kid  along?" 

"Very  well,"  nodded  Simeon  Holly  curtly, 
his  eyes  still  on  David's  face. 

Perry  Larson  turned  to  the  woman,  and  by  a 
flourish  of  his  arms  and  a  jumble  of  broken 
English  attempted  to  make  her  understand 
that  he  was  to  take  her  where  she  undoubtedly 
wished  to  go.  The  woman  still  looked  uncom 
prehending,  however,  and  David  promptly 
came  to  the  rescue,  saying  a  few  rapid  words 


JUST  DAVID 

that  quickly  brought  a  flood  of  delighted  un 
derstanding  to  the  woman's  face. 

"Can't  you  ask  her  if  she's  hungry?"  ven 
tured  Mrs.  Holly,  then. 

"  She  says  no,  thank  you,"  translated  David, 
with  a  smile,  when  he  had  received  his  answer. 
"But  the  boy  says  he  is,  if  you  please." 

"Then,  tell  them  to  come  into  the  kitchen," 
directed  Mrs.  Holly,  hurrying  into  the  house. 

"So  you're  French,  are  you?"  said  Simeon 
Holly  to  David. 

"French?  Oh,  no,  sir,"  smiled  David, 
proudly.  "I'm  an  American.  Father  said  I 
was.  He  said  /  was  born  in  this  country." 

"But  how  comes  it  you  can  speak  Frencl 
like  that?" 

"Why,  I  learned  it."  Then,  divining  that  his 
words  were  still  unconvincing,  he  added :  "  Same 
as  I  learned  German  and  other  things  with 
father,  out  of  books,  you  know.   Did  n't  you  / 
learn  French  when  you  were  a  little  boy?"  /^ 

"Humph!"  vouchsafed  Simeon  Holly,  stalk 
ing  away  without  answering  the  question. 

Immediately  after  dinner  Perry  Larson 
drove  away  with  the  woman  and  the  little 
boy.  The  woman's  face  was  wreathed  with 

86 


NUISANCES 

smiles,  and  her  last  adoring  glance  was  for 
David,  waving  his  hand  to  her  from  the  porch 
steps. 

In  the  afternoon  David  took  his  violin  and 
went  off  toward  the  hill  behind  the  house  for  a 
walk.  He  had  asked  Mrs.  Holly  to  accompany 
him,  but  she  had  refused,  though  she  was  not 
sweeping  or  dusting  at  the  time.  She  was  doing 
nothing  more  important,  apparently,  than 
making  holes  in  a  piece  of  white  cloth,  and  sew 
ing  them  up  again  with  a  needle  and  thread. 

David  had  then  asked  Mr.  Holly  to  go ;  but 
his  refusal  was  even  more  strangely  impatient 
than  his  wife's  had  been. 

"  And  why,  pray,  should  I  go  for  a  useless 
walk  now  —  or  any  time,  for  that  matter?"  he 
demanded  sharply. 

David  had  shrunk  back  unconsciously, 
though  he  had  still  smiled. 

"Oh,  but  it  would  n't  be  a  useless  walk,  sir. 
Father  said  nothing  was  useless  that  helped  to 
keep  us  in  tune,  you  know." 

"In  tune!" 

"  I  mean,  you  looked  as  father  used  to  look 
sometimes,  when  he  felt  out  of  tune.  And  he 
always  said  there  was  nothing  like  a  walk  to 

87 


JUST  DAVID 

put  him  back  again.  I  —  I  was  feeling  a  little 
out  of  tune  myself  to-day,  and  I  thought,  by 
the  way  you  looked,  that  you  were,  too.  So  I 
asked  you  to  go  to  walk." 

"Humph!  Well,  I—  That  will  do,  boy. 
No  impertinence,  you  understand!"  And  he 
had  turned  away  in  very  obvious  anger. 

David,  with  a  puzzled  sorrow  in  his  heart,, 
had  started  alone  then,  on  his  walk. 


CHAPTER  VII 
"YOU'RE  WANTED  —  YOU'RE  WANTED!" 

IT  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  end  of  David's 
third  day  at  the  farmhouse.  Upstairs,  in  the 
hot  little  room  over  the  kitchen,  the  boy  knelt 
at  the  window  and  tried  to  find  a  breath  of  cool 
air  from  the  hills.  Downstairs  on  the  porch 
Simeon  Holly  and  his  wife  discussed  the  events 
of  the  past  few  days,  and  talked  of  what  should 
be  done  with  David. 

"But  what  shall  we  do  with  him?"  moaned 
Mrs.  Holly  at  last,  breaking  a  long  silence 
that  had  fallen  between  them.  "What  can  we 
do  with  him?  Does  n't  anybody  want  him?" 

"No,  of  course,  nobody  wants  him,"  retorted 
her  husband  relentlessly. 

And  at  the  words  a  small  figure  in  a  yellow- 
white  nightshirt  stopped  short.  David,  violin 
in  hand,  had  fled  from  the  little  hot  room,  and 
stood  now  just  inside  the  kitchen  door. 

"Who  can  want  a  child  that  has  been  brought 
up  in  that  heathenish  fashion?"  continued 
Simeon  Holly.  "According  to  his  own  story, 


JUST  DAVID 

even  his  father  did  nothing  but  play  the  fid 
dle  and  tramp  through  the  woods  day  in  and 
day  out,  with  an  occasional  trip  to  the  moun 
tain  village  to  get  food  and  clothing  when  they 
had  absolutely  nothing  to  eat  and  wear.  Of 
course  nobody  wants  him!" 

David,  at  the  kitchen  door,  caught  his  breath 
chokingly.  Then  he  sped  across  the  floor  to  the 
back  hall,  and  on  through  the  long  sheds  to  the 
hayloft  in  the  barn  —  the  place  where  his  father 
seemed  always  nearest. 

David  was  frightened  and  heartsick.  Nobody 
wanted  him.  He  had  heard  it  with  his  own  ears, 
so  there  was  no  mistake.  What  now  about  all 
those  long  days  and  nights  ahead  before  he 
might  go,  violin  in  hand,  to  meet  his  father  in 
that  far-away  country?  How  was  he  to  live 
those  days  and  nights  if  nobody  wanted  him? 
How  was  his  violin  to  speak  in  a  voice  that  was 
true  and  pure  and  full,  and  tell  of  the  beautiful 
world,  as  his  father  had  said  that  it  must  do? 
David  quite  cried  aloud  at  the  thought.  Then 
he  thought  of  something  else  that  his  father  had 
said:  "Remember  this,  my  boy,  —  in  your  vio 
lin  lie  all  the  things  you  long  for.  You  have  only 
to  play,  and  the  broad  skies  of  your  mountain 

90 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

home  will  be  over  you,  and  the  dear  friends  and 
comrades  of  your  mountain  forests  will  be  all 
about  you."  With  a  quick  cry  David  raised  his 
violin  and  drew  the  bow  across  the  strings. 

Back  on  the  porch  at  that  moment  Mrs. 
Holly  was  saying:  — 

"Of  course  there's  the  orphan  asylum,  or 
maybe  the  poorhouse  —  if  they'd  take  him; 
but  — Simeon,"  she  broke  off  sharply,  "  where  *s 
that  child  playing  now?" 

Simeon  listened  with  intent  ears. 

"  In  the  barn,  I  should  say." 

"But  he'd  gone  to  bed!" 

"And  he'll  go  to  bed  again,"  asserted  Simeon 
Holly  grimly,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stalked 
across  the  moonlit  yard  to  the  barn. 

As  before,  Mrs.  Holly  followed  him,  and  as 
before,  both  involuntarily  paused  just  inside  the 
barn  door  to  listen.  No  runs  and  trills  and  rol 
licking  bits  of  melody  floated  down  the  stairway 
to-night.  The  notes  were  long-drawn,  and 
plaintively  sweet;  and  they  rose  and  swelled 
and  died  almost  into  silence  while  the  man  and 
the  woman  by  the  door  stood  listening. 

They  were  back  in  the  long  ago  —  Simeon 
Holly  and  his  wife  —  back  with  a  boy  of  their 

91 


JUST  DAVID 

own  who  had  made  those  same  rafters  ring  with 
shouts  of  laughter,  and  who,  also,  had  played 
the  violin  —  though  not  like  this;  and  the  same 
thought  had  come  to  each:  "What  if,  after  all, 
it  were  John  playing  all  alone  in  the  moon 
light!" 

It  had  not  been  the  violin,  in  the  end,  that 
had  driven  John  Holly  from  home.  It  had  been 
the  possibilities  in  a  piece  of  crayon.  All 
through  childhood  the  boy  had  drawn  his  be 
loved  "pictures"  on  every  inviting  space  that 
offered,  —  whether  it  were  the  "best-room" 
wall-paper,  or  the  fly  leaf  of  the  big  plush  al 
bum,  —  and  at  eighteen  he  had  announced 
his  determination  to  be  an  artist.  For  a  year 
after  that  Simeon  Holly  fought  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  stubborn  will,  banished  chalk  and 
crayon  from  the  house,  and  set  the  boy  to 
homely  tasks  that  left  no  time  for  anything  but 
food  and  sleep  —  then  John  ran  away. 

That  was  fifteen  years  ago,  and  they  had  not 
seen  him  since;  though  two  unanswered  letters 
in  Simeon  Holly's  desk  testified  that  perhaps 
this,  at  least,  was  not  the  boy's  fault. 

It  was  not  of  the  grown-up  John,  the  willful 
boy  and  runaway  son,  however,  that  Simeon 

92 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

Holly  and  his  wife  were  thinking,  as  they  stood 
just  inside  the  barn  door;  it  was  of  Baby  John, 
the  little  curly-headed  fellow  that  had  played 
at  their  knees,  frolicked  in  this  very  barn,  and 
nestled  in  their  arms  when  the  day  was  done. 

Mrs.  Holly  spoke  first  —  and  it  was  not  as 
she  had  spoken  on  the  porch. 

"Simeon,"  she  began  tremulously,  "that 
dear  child  must  go  to  bed!"  And  she  hurried 
across  the  floor  and  up  the  stairs,  followed  by 
her  husband.  "Come,  David,"  she  said,  as  she 
reached  the  top;  "it's  tune  little  boys  were 
asleep!  Come!" 

Her  voice  was  low,  and  not  quite  steady.  To 
David  her  voice  sounded  as  her  eyes  looked 
when  there  was  in  them  the  far-away  some 
thing  that  hurt.  Very  slowly  he  came  forward 
into  the  moonlight,  his  gaze  searching  the 
woman's  face  long  and  earnestly. 

"And  do  you  —  want  me?"  he  faltered. 

The  woman  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  little 
sob.  Before  her  stood  the  slender  figure  in  the 
yellow-white  gown  —  John's  gown.  Into  her 
eyes  looked  those  other  eyes,  dark  and  wistful, 
—  like  John's  eyes.  And  her  arms  ached  with 
emptiness. 

93 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  yes,  for  my  very  own  —  and  for  al 
ways!"  she  cried  with  sudden  passion,  clasping 
the  little  form  close.  "For  always!" 

And  David  sighed  his  content. 

Simeon  Holly's  lips  parted,  but  they  closed 
again  with  no  words  said.  The  man  turned 
then,  with  a  curiously  baffled  look,  and  stalked 
down  the  stairs. 

On  the  porch  long  minutes  later,  when  once 
more  David  had  gone  to  bed,  Simeon  Holly 
said  coldly  to  his  wife :  — 

"I  suppose  you  realize,  Ellen,  just  what 
you've  pledged  yourself  to,  by  that  absurd  out 
burst  of  yours  in  the  barn  to-night  —  and  all 
because  that  ungodly  music  and  the  moon 
shine  had  gone  to  your  head!" 

"But  I  want  the  boy,  Simeon.  He  —  he 
makes  me  think  of  —  John." 

Harsh  lines  came  to  the  man's  mouth,  but 
there  was  a  perceptible  shake  in  his  voice  as  he 
answered:  — 

"We're  not  talking  of  John,  Ellen.  We're 
talking  of  this  irresponsible,  hardly  sane  boy 
upstairs.  He  can  work,  I  suppose,  if  he's 
taught,  and  in  that  way  he  won't  perhaps  be  a 
dead  loss.  Still,  he's  another  mouth  to  feed, 

94 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

and  that  counts  now.  There's  the  note,  you 
know,  —  it's  due  in  August." 

"But  you  say  there's  money  —  almost 
enough  for  it  —  in  the  bank."  Mrs.  Holly's 
voice  was  anxiously  apologetic. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  vouchsafed  the  man.  "But 
almost  enough  is  not  quite  enough." 

"But  there's  time  —  more  than  two  months. 
It  is  n't  due  till  the  last  of  August,  Simeon." 

"I  know,  I  know.  Meanwhile,  there's  the 
boy.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?" 

"Why,  can't  you  use  him  —  on  the  farm  —  a 
little?" 

"Perhaps.  I  doubt  it,  though,"  gloomed  the 
man.  "  One  can't  hoe  corn  nor  pull  weeds  with 
a  fiddle-bow  —  and  that's  all  he  seems  to  know 
how  to  handle." 

"But  he  can  learn  —  and  he  does  play 
beautifully,"  murmured  the  woman;  whenever 
before  had  Ellen  Holly  ventured  to  use  words 
of  argument  with  her  husband,  and  in  extenua 
tion,  too,  of  an  act  of  her  own ! 

There  was  no  reply  except  a  muttered 
"Humph!"  under  the  breath.  Then  Simeon 
Holly  rose  and  stalked  into  the  house. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Sunday  at 
95 


JUST  DAVID 

the  farmhouse  was  a  thing  of  stern  repression 
and  solemn  silence.  In  Simeon  Holly's  veins 
ran  the  blood  of  the  Puritans,  and  he  was  more 
than  strict  as  to  what  he  considered  right  and 
wrong.  When  half-trained  for  the  ministry, 
ill-health  had  forced  him  to  resort  to  a  less  con 
fining  life,  though  never  had  it  taken  from  him 
the  uncompromising  rigor  of  his  views.  It  was 
a  distinct  shock  to  him,  therefore,'  on  this  Sun 
day  morning  to  be  awakened  by  a  peal  of  music 
such  as  the  little  house  had  never  known  be 
fore.  All  the  while  that  he  was  thrusting  his 
indignant  self  into  his  clothing,  the  runs  and 
turns  and  crashing  chords  whirled  about  him 
until  it  seemed  that  a  whole  orchestra  must  be 
imprisoned  in  the  little  room  over  the  kitchen, 
so  skillful  was  the  boy's  double  stopping.  Sim 
eon  Holly  was  white  with  anger  when  he  finally 
hurried  down  the  hall  and  threw  open  David's 
bedroom  door. 

"Boy,  what  do  you  mean  by  this?"  he  de 
manded. 

David  laughed  gleefully. 

"And  did  n't  you  know?"  he  asked.  "Why, 
I  thought  my  music  would  tell  you.  I  was  so 
happy,  so  glad!  The  birds  in  the  trees  woke 

96 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

me  up  singing,  *  You  're  wanted  —  you  're 
wanted';  and  the  sun  came  over  the  hill  there 
and  said,  'You're  wanted  —  you're  wanted'; 
and  the  little  tree-branch  tapped  on  my  window 
pane  and  said,  'You're  wanted  —  you're 
wanted!'  And  I  just  had  to  take  up  my  violin 
and  tell  you  about  it!" 

"But  it's  Sunday  —  the  Lord's  Day,"  re 
monstrated  the  man  sternly. 

David  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  questioning. 

"Are  you  quite  a  heathen,  then?"  catechised 
the  man  sharply.  "Have  they  never  told  you 
anything  about  God,  boy?" 

"Oh,  'God'?  —  of  course,"  smiled  David,  in 
open  relief.  "God  wraps  up  the  buds  in  their 
little  brown  blankets,  and  covers  the  roots 
with—" 

"I  am  not  talking  about  brown  blankets  nor 
roots,"  interrupted  the  man  severely.  "This  is 
God's  day,  and  as  such  should  be  kept  holy." 


"Yes.  You  should  not  fiddle  nor  laugh  noi 
sing." 

"But  those  are  good  things,  and  beautiful 
things,"  defended  David,  his  eyes  wide  and 
puzzled. 

97 


JUST  DAVID 

"In  their  place,  perhaps,"  conceded  the  man 
stiffly;  "but  not  on  God's  day." 

"You  mean  —  He  would  n't  like  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!"  —  and  David's  face  cleared.  "That's 
all  right,  then.  Your  God  is  n't  the  same  one, 
sir,  for  mine  loves  all  beautiful  things  every  day 
in  the  year." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  For  the  first 
tune  in  his  life  Simeon  Holly  found  himself 
without  words. 

"We  won't  talk  of  this  any  more,  David,"  he 
said  at  last;  "but  we'll  put  it  another  way  —  I 
don't  wish  you  to  play  your  fiddle  on  Sunday. 
Now,  put  it  up  till  to-morrow."  And  he  turned 
and  went  down  the  hall. 

Breakfast  was  a  very  quiet  meal  that  morn 
ing.  Meals  were  never  things  of  hilarious  joy  at 
the  Holly  farmhouse,  as  David  had  already 
found  out;  but  he  had  not  seen  one  before  quite 
so  somber  as  this.  It  was  followed  immediately 
by  a  half-hour  of  Scripture-reading  and  prayer, 
with  Mrs.  Holly  and  Perry  Larson  sitting  very 
stiff  and  solemn  in  their  chairs,  while  Mr.  Holly 
read.  David  tried  to  sit  very  stiff  and  solemn 
in  his  chair,  also ;  but  the  roses  at  the  window 

08 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

were  nodding  their  heads  and  beckoning;  and 
the  birds  in  the  bushes  beyond  were  sending  to 
him  coaxing  little  chirps  of  "Come  out,  come 
out ! "  And  how  could  one  expect  to  sit  stiff  and 
solemn  in  the  face  of  all  that,  particularly  when 
one's  fingers  were  tingling  to  take  up  the  inter 
rupted  song  of  the  morning  and  tell  the  whole 
world  how  beautiful  it  was  to  be  wanted ! 

Yet  David  sat  very  still,  —  or  as  still  as  he 
could  sit,  —  and  only  the  tapping  of  his  foot, 
and  the  roving  of  his  wistful  eyes  told  that 
his  mind  was  not  with  Farmer  Holly  and  the 
Children  of  Israel  in  their  wanderings  in  the 
wilderness. 

After  the  devotions  came  an  hour  of  subdued 
haste  and  confusion  while  the  family  prepared 
for  church.  David  had  never  been  to  church. 
He  asked  Perry  Larson  what  it  was  like;  but 
Perry  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  to 
nobody,  apparently :  — 

"Sugar!    Won't   ye   hear   that,   now?" 
which  to  David  was  certainly  no  answer  at  all. 

That  one  must  be  spick  and  span  to  go  to 
church,  David  soon  found  out  —  never  before 
had  he  been  so  scrubbed  and  brushed  and 
combed.  There  was,  too,  brought  out  for  him 

99 


JUST  DAVID 

to  wear  a  little  clean  white  blouse  and  a  red  tie, 
over  which  Mrs.  Holly  cried  a  little  as  she  had 
over  the  nightshirt  that  first  evening. 

The  church  was  in  the  village  only  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away;  and  in  due  time  David,  open- 
eyed  and  interested,  was  following  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Holly  down  its  long  center  aisle.  The 
Hollys  were  early  as  usual,  and  service  had  not 
begun.  Even  the  organist  had  not  taken  his 
seat  beneath  the  great  pipes  of  blue  and  gold 
that  towered  to  the  ceiling. 

It  was  the  pride  of  the  town  —  that  organ. 
It  had  been  given  by  a  great  man  (out  in  the 
world)  whose  birthplace  the  town  was.  More 
than  that,  a  yearly  donation  from  this  same 
great  man  paid  for  the  skilled  organist  who 
came  every  Sunday  from  the  city  to  play  it. 
To-day,  as  the  organist  took  his  seat,  he  no 
ticed  a  new  face  in  the  Holly  pew,  and  he  almost 
gave  a  friendly  smile  as  he  met  the  wondering 
gaze  of  the  small  boy  there;  then  he  lost  him 
self,  as  usual,  in  the  music  before  him. 

Down  in  the  Holly  pew  the  small  boy  held 
his  breath.  A  score  of  violins  were  singing  in 
his  ears;  and  a  score  of  other  instruments  that 
he  could  not  name,  crashed  over  his  head, 

100 


YOU'RE  WANTED 

and  brought  him  to  his  feet  in  ecstasy.  Before 
a  detaining  hand  could  stop  him,  he  was  out  in 
the  aisle,  his  eyes  on  the  blue-and-gold  pipes 
from  which  seemed  to  come  those  wondrous 
sounds.  Then  his  gaze  fell  on  the  man  and  on 
the  banks  of  keys;  and  with  soft  steps  he  crept 
along  the  aisle  and  up  the  stairs  to  the  organ- 
loft. 

For  long  minutes  he  stood  motionless,  listen 
ing;  then  the  music  died  into  silence  and  the 
minister  rose  for  the  invocation.  It  was  a  boy's 
voice,  and  not  a  man's,  however,  that  broke  the 
pause. 

"Oh,  sir,  please,"  it  said,  "would  you  — 
could  you  teach  me  to||ta  that?" 

The  organist  choked^jrer  a  cough,  and  the 
soprano  reached  out  and  drew  David  to  her 
side,  whispering  something  in  his  ear.  The 
minister,  after  a  dazed  silence,  bowed  his  head; 
while  down  in  the  Holly  pew  an  angry  man  and 
a  sorely  mortified  woman  vowed  that,  before 
David  came  to  church  again,  he  should  have 
learned  some  things. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PUZZLING    "DOS"   AND    "DON*TS" 

WITH  the  coming  of  Monday  arrived  a  new 
life  for  David  —  a  curious  life  full  of  "don'ts" 
and  "dos."  David  wondered  sometimes  why 
all  the  pleasant  things  were  "don'ts"  and  all 
the  unpleasant  ones  "dos."  Corn  to  be  hoed, 
weeds  to  be  pulled,  woodboxes  to  be  filled; 
with  all  these  it  was  "do  this,  do  this,  do  this." 
But  when  it  came  to  lying  under  the  apple 
trees,  exploring  thejrfok  that  ran  by  the 
field,  or  even  watcnBf  the  bugs  and  worms 
that  one  found  in  the  earth  —  all  these  were 
"don'ts." 

As  to  Farmer  Holly  —  Farmer  Holly  himself 
awoke  to  some  new  experiences  that  Monday 
morning.  One  of  them  was  the  difficulty  in  suc 
cessfully  combating  the  cheerfully  expressed 
opinion  that  weeds  were  so  pretty  growing  that 
it  was  a  pity  to  pull  them  up  and  let  them  all 
wither  and  die.  Another  was  the  equally  great 
difficulty  of  keeping  a  small  boy  at  useful  labor 

102 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

of  any  sort  in  the  face  of  the  attractions  dis 
played  by  a  passing  cloud,  a  blossoming  shrub, 
or  a  bird  singing  on  a  tree-branch. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  David  so  evi 
dently  did  his  best  to  carry  out  the  "dos"  and 
avoid  the  "don'ts,"  that  at  four  o'clock  that 
first  Monday  he  won  from  the  stern  but  would- 
be- just  Farmer  Holly  his  freedom  for  the  rest  of 
the  day;  and  very  gayly  he  set  off  for  a  walk. 
He  went  without  his  violin,  as  there  was  the 
smell  of  rain  in  the  air;  but  his  face  and  his 
step  and  the  very  swing  of  his  arms  were  singing 
(to  David)  the  joyous  song  of  the  morning  be 
fore.  Even  yet,  in  spite  of  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  day's  work,  the  whole  world,  to  David's 
homesick,  lonely  little  heart,  was  still  caroling 
that  blessed  "You're  wanted,  you're  wanted, 
you're  wanted!" 

And  then  he  saw  the  crow. 

David  knew  crows.  In  his  home  on  the 
mountain  he  had  had  several  of  them  for 
friends.  He  had  learned  to  know  and  answer 
their  calls.  He  had  learned  to  admire  their 
wisdom  and  to  respect  their  moods  and  tem 
pers.  He  loved  to  watch  them.  Especially  he 
loved  to  see  the  great  birds  cut  through  the  air 

io3 


JUST  DAVID 

with  a  wide  sweep  of  wings,  so  alive,  so  glori 
ously  free! 

But  this  crow  — 

This  crow  was  not  cutting  through  the  air 
with  a  wide  sweep  of  wing.  It  was  in  the  middle 
of  a  cornfield,  and  it  was  rising  and  falling  and 
flopping  about  in  a  most  extraordinary  fashion. 
Very  soon  David,  running  toward  it,  saw  why. 
By  a  long  leather  strip  it  was  fastened  securely 
to  a  stake  in  the  ground. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  exclaimed  David,  in  sympa 
thetic  consternation.  "  Here,  you  just  wait  a 
minute.  I'll  fix  it." 

With  confident  celerity  David  whipped  out 
his  jackknife  to  cut  the  thong;  but  he  found 
then  that  to  "fix  it"  and  to  say  he  would  "fix 
it"  were  two  different  matters. 

The  crow  did  not  seem  to  recognize  in  David 
a  friend.  He  saw  in  him,  apparently,  but  an 
other  of  the  stone-throwing,  gun-shooting,  tor 
turing  humans  who  were  responsible  for  his 
present  hateful  captivity.  With  beak  and  claw 
and  wing,  therefore,  he  fought  this  new  evil  that 
had  come  presumedly  to  torment ;  and  not  until 
David  had  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  taking  off 
his  blouse,  and  throwing  it  over  the  angry 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

bird,  could  the  boy  get  near  enough  to  accom 
plish  his  purpose.  Even  then  David  had  to 
leave  upon  the  slender  leg  a  twist  of  leather. 

A  moment  later,  with  a  whir  of  wings  and  a 
frightened  squawk  that  quickly  turned  into  a 
surprised  caw  of  triumphant  rejoicing,  the  crow 
soared  into  the  air  and  made  straight  for  a  dis 
tant  tree-top.  David,  after  a  minute's  glad 
surveying  of  his  work,  donned  his  blouse  again 
and  resumed  his  walk. 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  when  David  got 
back  to  the  Holly  farmhouse.  In  the  barn  door 
way  sat  Perry  Larson. 

"Well,  sonny,"  the  man  greeted  him  cheer 
ily,  "did  ye  get  yer  weedin'  done?" 

"  Y  —  yes,"  hesitated  David.  "  I  got  it  done; 
but  I  did  n't  like  it." 

"  'T  is  kinder  hot  work." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mind  that  part,"  returned 
David.  "What  I  did  n't  like  was  pulling  up  all 
those  pretty  little  plants  and  letting  them  die." 

"Weeds  —  'pretty  little  plants' !"  ejaculated 
the  man.  "Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!" 

"But  they  were  pretty,"  defended  David, 
reading  aright  the  scorn  in  Perry  Larson's 
voice.  "The  very  prettiest  and  biggest  there 

106 


JUST  DAVID 

were,  always.  Mr.  Holly  showed  me,  you  know, 
—  and  I  had  to  pull  them  up." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  muttered  Perry 
Larson  again. 

"But  I've  been  to  walk  since.  I  feel  better 
now." 

"Oh,  ye  do!" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  had  a  splendid  walk.  I  went 
'way  up  in  the  woods  on  the  hill  there.  I  was 
singing  all  the  time  —  inside,  you  know.  I 
was  so  glad  Mrs.  Holly  —  wanted  me.  You 
know  what  it  is,  when  you  sing  inside." 

Perry  Larson  scratched  his  head. 

"Well,  no,  sonny,  I  can't  really  say  I  do," 
he  retorted.  "I  ain't  much  on  singin'." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  mean  aloud.  I  mean  inside. 
When  you're  happy,  you  know." 

"When  I'm  —  oh!"  The  man  stopped  and 
stared,  his  mouth  falling  open.  Suddenly  his 
face  changed,  and  he  grinned  appreciatively. 
"Well,  if  you  ain't  the  beat  'em,  boy!  T  is 
kinder  like  singin'  —  the  way  ye  feel  inside, 
when  yer  'specially  happy,  ain't  it?  But  I  never 
thought  of  it  before." 

"Oh,  yes.  Why,  that's  where  I  get  my 
songs  —  inside  of  me,  you  know  —  that  I  play 

106 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

on  my  violin.   And  I  made  a  crow  sing,  too. 
Only  he  sang  outside." 

"  Sing  —  a  crow  / "  scoffed  the  man.  "  Shucks ! 
It'll  take  more  'n  you  ter  make  me  think  a 
crow  can  sing,  my  lad." 

"But  they  do,  when  they're  happy,"  main 
tained  the  boy.  "Anyhow,  it  doesn't  sound  the 
same  as  it  does  when  they  're  cross,  or  plagued 
over  something.  You  ought  to  have  heard  this 
one  to-day.  He  sang.  He  was  so  glad  to  get 
away.  I  let  him  loose,  you  see." 

"You  mean,  you  caught  a  crow  up  there  in 
them  woods?"  The  man's  voice  was  skep 
tical. 

"Oh,  no,  I  didn't  catch  it.  But  somebody 
had,  and  tied  him  up.  And  he  was  so  un 
happy!" 

"A  crow  tied  up  in  the  woods!" 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  find  that  in  the  woods.  It  was 
before  I  went  up  the  hill  at  all." 

"A  crow  tied  up  —  Look  a-here,  boy,  what 
are  you  talkin'  about?  Where  was  that  crow?" 
Perry  Larson's  whole  self  had  become  suddenly 
alert. 

"In  the  field  'way  over  there.  And  some 
body—" 

107 


JUST  DAVID 

"The  cornfield!  Jingo!  Boy,  you  don't  mea«i 
you  touched  that  crow?" 

"Well,  he  would  n't  let  me  touch  him,"  half- 
apologized  David.  "He  was  so  afraid,  you  see. 
Why,  I  had  to  put  my  blouse  over  his  head 
before  he'd  let  me  cut  him  loose  at  all." 

"Cut  him  loose!"  Perry  Larson  sprang  to 
his  feet.  "You  didn't— you  didn't  let  that 
crow  go!" 

David  shrank  back. 

"Why,  yes;  he  wanted  to  go.  He — "  But 
the  man  before  him  had  fallen  back  despair 
ingly  to  his  old  position. 

"Well,  sir,  you've  done  it  now.  What  the 
boss '11  say,  I  don't  know;  but  I  know  what  I'd 
like  ter  say  to  ye.  I  was  a  whole  week,  off  an' 
on,  gettin'  hold  of  that  crow,  an'  I  would  n't 
have  got  him  at  all  if  I  had  n't  hid  half  the 
night  an'  all  the  mornin'  in  that  clump  o' 
bushes,  watchin'  a  chance  ter  wing  him,  jest 
enough  an'  not  too  much.  An*  even  then  the 
job  wa'n't  done.  Let  me  tell  yer,  't  wa'n't  no 
small  thing  ter  get  him  hitched.  I'm  wearin' 
the  marks  of  the  rascal's  beak  yet.  An'  now 
you've  gone  an'  let  him  go  —  just  like  that," 
he  finished,  snapping  his  fingers  angrily. 

108 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

In  David's  face  there  was  no  contrition. 
There  was  only  incredulous  horror. 

"You  mean,  you  tied  him  there,  on  purpose?" 

"Sure  I  did!" 

"But  he  did  n't  like  it.  Could  n't  you  see  he 
did  n't  like  it?"  cried  David. 

"Like  it!  What  if  he  did  n't?  I  did  n't  like 
ter  have  my  corn  pulled  up,  either.  See  here, 
sonny,  you  no  need  ter  look  at  me  in  that  tone 
o'  voice.  I  did  n't  hurt  the  varmint  none  ter 
speak  of  —  ye  see  he  could  fly,  did  n't  ye?  — 
an'  he  wa'n't  starvin'.  I  saw  to  it  that  he  had 
enough  ter  eat  an'  a  dish  o'  water  handy.  An' 
if  he  did  n't  flop  an'  pull  an'  try  ter  get  away 
he  need  n't  'a'  hurt  hisself  never.  I  ain't  ter 
blame  for  what  pullin'  he  done." 

"But  would  n't  you  pull  if  you  had  two  big 
wings  that  could  carry  you  to  the  top  of  that  big 
tree  there,  and  away  up,  up  in  the  sky,  where 
you  could  talk  to  the  stars?  —  would  n't  you 
pull  if  somebody  a  hundred  times  bigger 'n  you 
came  along  and  tied  your  leg  to  that  post 
there?" 

The  man,  Perry,  flushed  an  angry  red. 

"See  here,  sonny,  I  wa'n't  askin'  you  ter  do 
10  preachin'.  What  I  did  ain't  no  more'n  any 

109 


JUST  DAVID 

man  'round  here  does  —  if  he's  smart  enough 
ter  catch  one.  Rigged-up  broomsticks  ain't  in 
it  with  a  live  bird  when  it  comes  ter  drivin' 
away  them  pesky,  thievin'  crows.  There  ain't 
a  farmer  'round  here  that  hain't  been  green 
with  envy,  ever  since  I  caught  the  critter.  An' 
now  ter  have  you  come  along  an'  with  one  flip 
o'  yer  knife  spile  it  all,  I —  Well,  it  jest 
makes  me  mad,  clean  through!  That's  all." 

"You  mean,  you  tied  him  there  to  frighten 
away  the  other  crows?" 

"Sure!  There  ain't  nothin'  like  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!" 

"Well,  you'd  better  be.  But  that  won't 
bring  back  my  crow!" 

David's  face  brightened. 

"No,  that's  so,  is  n't  it?  I'm  glad  of  that.  I 
was  thinking  of  the  crows,  you  see.  I'm  so 
sorry  for  them!  Only  think  how  we'd  hate  to 
be  tied  like  that — "  But  Perry  Larson,  with 
a  stare  and  an  indignant  snort,  had  got  to  his 
feet,  and  was  rapidly  walking  toward  the  house. 

Very  plainly,  that  evening,  David  was  in 
disgrace,  and  it  took  all  of  Mrs.  Holly's  tact 
and  patience,  and  some  private  pleading,  to 
keep  a  general  explosion  from  wrecking  all 

no 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

chances  of  his  staying  longer  at  the  farmhouse- 
Even  as  it  was,  David  was  sorrowfully  aware 
that  he  was  proving  to  be  a  great  disappoint 
ment  so  soon,  and  his  violin  playing  that  even 
ing  carried  a  moaning  plaintiveness  that  would 
have  been  very  significant  to  one  who  knew 
David  well. 

Very  faithfully,  the  next  day,  the  boy  tried 
to  carry  out  all  the  "dos,"  and  though  he  did 
not  always  succeed,  yet  his  efforts  were  so 
obvious,  that  even  the  indignant  owner  of  the 
liberated  crow  was  somewhat  mollified;  and 
again  Simeon  Holly  released  David  from  work 
at  four  o'clock. 

Alas,  for  David's  peace  of  mind,  however; 
for  on  his  walk  to-day,  though  he  found  no 
captive  crow  to  demand  his  sympathy,  he  found 
something  else  quite  as  heartrending,  and  as 
incomprehensible . 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  that  he  came 
upon  two  boys,  each  carrying  a  rifle,  a  dead 
squirrel,  and  a  dead  rabbit.  The  threatened 
rain  of  the  day  before  had  not  materialized,  and 
David  had  his  violin.  He  had  been  playing 
softly  when  he  came  upon  the  boys  where  the 
path  entered  the  woods. 

in 


JUST  DAVID 

"Oh!"  At  sight  of  the  boys  and  their  burden 
David  gave  an  involuntary  cry,  and  stopped 
playing. 

The  boys,  scarcely  less  surprised  at  sight  of 
David  and  his  violin,  paused  and  stared  frankly. 

"It's  the  tramp  kid  with  his  fiddle,"  whis 
pered  one  to  the  other  huskily. 

David,  his  grieved  eyes  on  the  motionless 
little  bodies  in  the  boys'  hands,  shuddered. 

"Are  they  — dead,  too?" 

The  bigger  boy  nodded  self-importantly. 

"Sure.  We  just  shot  'em  —  the  squirrels. 
Ben  here  trapped  the  rabbits."  He  paused, 
manifestly  waiting  for  the  proper  awed  admi 
ration  to  come  into  David's  face. 

But  in  David's  startled  eyes  there  was  no 
awed  admiration,  there  was  only  disbelieving 
horror. 

"You  mean,  you  sent  them  to  the  far 
country?" 

"We  — what?" 

"Sent  them.  Made  them  go  yourselves — to 
the  far  country?  " 

The  younger  boy  still  stared.  The  older  one 
grinned  disagreeably. 

"Sure,"  he  answered  with  laconic  indiffer- 

112 


"DOS"  AND  "DON'TS" 

ence.    "We  sent  'em  to  the  far  country,  all 
right." 

"But  —  how  did  you  know  they  wanted  to 
go?" 

"Wanted-  Eh?"  exploded  the  big  be,;. 
Then  he  grinned  again,  still  more  disagreeably. 

"Well,  you  see,  my  dear,  we  did  n't  ask  'em," 
he  gibed. 

Real  distress  came  into  David's  face. 

"Then  you  don't  know  at  all.  And  maybe 
they  didn't  want  to  go.  And  if  they  didn't, 
how  could  they  go  singing,  as  father  said? 
Father  was  n't  sent.  He  went.  And  he  went 
singing.  He  said  he  did.  But  these  —  How 
would  you  like  to  have  somebody  come  along 
and  send  you  to  the  far  country,  without  even 
knowing  if  you  wanted  to  go?" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  boys,  with  a 
growing  fear  in  their  eyes,  as  at  sight  of  some 
thing  inexplicable  and  uncanny,  were  sidling 
away;  and  in  a  moment  they  were  hurrying 
down  the  hill,  not,  however,  without  a  back« 
ward  glance  or  two,  of  something  very  like 
terror. 

David,  left  alone,  went  on  his  way  with 
troubled  eyes  and  a  thoughtful  frown. 

n3 


JUST  DAVID 

David  often  wore,  during  those  first  few 
days  at  the  Holly  farmhouse,  a  thoughtful  face 
and  c.  troubled  frown.  There  were  so  many, 
many  things  that  were  different  from  his  moun 
tain  home.  Over  and  over,  as  those  first  long 
days  passed,  he  read  his  letter  until  he  knew 
it  by  heart  —  and  he  had  need  to.  Was  he 
not  already  surrounded  by  things  and  people 
that  were  strange  to  him? 

And  they  were  so  very  strange  —  these  peo-  \ 
pie!   There  were  the  boys  and  men  who  rose 
at  dawn  —  yet  never  paused  to  watch  the  sun 
flood  the  world  with  light;  who  stayed  in  the 
fields  all  day  —  yet  never  raised  their  eyes  to  / 
the  big  fleecy  clouds  overhead ;  who  knew  birds  / 
only  as  thieves  after  fruit  and  grain,  and  squir-  \ 
rels  and  rabbits  only  as  creatures  to  be  trapped 
or  shot.   The  women  —  they  were  even  more 
incomprehensible.  They  spent  the  long  hours 
behind  screened  doors  and  windows,  washing 
the  same  dishes  and  sweeping  the  same  floors 
day  after  day.  They,  too,   never  raised  their 
eyes  to  the  blue  sky  outside,  nor  even  to  the 
crimson  roses  that  peeped  in  at  the  window. 
They  seemed  rather  to  be  looking  always  for 
dirt,  yet  not  pleased  when  they  found  it  — 


"DOS"   AND   "DON'TS" 

especially  if  it  had  been  tracked  in  on  the  heel 
of  a  small  boy's  shoe ! 

More  extraordinary  than  all  this  to  David, 
however,  was  the  fact  that  these  people  re 
garded  him,  not  themselves,  as  being  strange- 
As  if  it  were  not  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  live  with  one's  father  in  one's  home  on 
the  mountain-top,  and  spend  one's  days  trailing 
through  the  forest  paths,  or  lying  with  a  book 
beside  some  babbling  little  stream!  As  if  it 
were  not  equally  natural  to  take  one's  violin 
with  one  at  times,  and  learn  to  catch  upon  the 
quivering  strings  the  whisper  of  the  wma^ 
through  the  trees!  Even  in  winter,  when  the 
clouds  themselves  came  down  from  the  sky  and 
covered  the  earth  with  their  soft  whiteness,  - 
even  then  the  forest  was  beautiful;  and  the 
song  of  the  brook  under  its  icy  coat  carried  a 
charm  and  mystery  that  were  quite  wanting  in 
the  chattering  freedom  of  summer.  Surely 
there  was  nothing  strange  in  all  this,  and  yet 
these  people  seemed  to  think  there  was! 


CHAPTER  IX 

JOE 

DAY  JDy  day,  however,  as  time  passed,  David 
diligently  tried  to  perform  the  "dos"  and 
avoid  the  "don'ts";  and  d*y  by  day  he  came 
to  realize  how  important  weeds  and  woodboxes 
were,  if  he  were  to  conform  to  what  was  evi 
dently  Farmer  Holly's  idea  of  "playing  in 
tune,"  in  this  strange  new  Orchestra  of  Life  in 
which  he  found  himself. 

But,  try  as  he  would,  there  was  yet  an  un 
reality  about  it  all,  a  persistent  feeling  of  use- 
lessness  and  waste,  that  would  not  be  set  aside. 
So  that,  after  all,  the  only  part  of  this  strange 
new  life  of  his  that  seemed  real  to  him  was  the 
time  that  came  after  four  o'clock  each  day, 
when  he  was  released  from  work. 

And  how  full  he  filled  those  hours !  There  was 
so  much  to  see,  so  much  to  do.  For  sunny  days 
there  were  field  and  stream  and  pasture  land 
and  the  whole  wide  town  to  explore.  For  rainy 
days,  if  he  did  not  care  to  go  to  walk,  there 
was  his  room  with  the  books  in  the  chimney 

116 


/ 


JOE 


cupboard.  Some  of  them  David  had  read  be 
fore,  but  many  of  them  he  had  not.  One  or 
two  were  old  friends;  but  not  so  "Dare  Devil 
Dick,"  and  "The  Pirates  of  Pigeon  Cove" 
(which  he  found  hidden  in  an  obscure  corner 
behind  a  loose  board) .  Side  by  side  stood  "The 
Lady  of  the  Lake,"  "Treasure  Island,"  and 
"David  Copperfield";  and  coverless  and  dog 
eared  lay  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  "The  Arabian 
Nights,"  and  "Grimm's  Fairy  Tales."  There 
were  more,  many  more,  and  David  devoured 
them  all  with  eager  eyes.  The  good  in  them  he 
absorbed  as  he  absorbed  the  sunshine;  the  evil 
he  cast  aside  unconsciously  —  it  rolled  off,  in 
deed,  like  the  proverbial  water  from  the  duck' 7 
back. 

David  hardly  knew  sometimes  which  he  liked 
the  better,  his  imaginative  adventures  between 
the  covers  of  his  books  or  his  real  adventures  in 
his  daily  strolls.  True,  it  was  not  his  mountain 
home  —  this  place  in  which  he  found  himself: 
neither  was  there  anywhere  his  Silver  Lake 
with  its  far,  far-reaching  sky  above.  More  de 
plorable  yet,  nowhere  was  there  the  dear  father 
he  loved  so  well.  But  the  sun  still  set  in  rose 
and  gold,  and  the  sky,  though  small,  still  car- 
"7 


JUST  DAVID 

ried  the  snowy  sails  of  its  cloud-boats;  while 
as  to  his  father  —  his  father  had  told  him  not 
to  grieve,  and  David  was  trying  very  hard  to 
obey. 

With  his  violin  for  company  David  started 
out  each  day,  unless  he  elected  to  stay  indoors 
with  his  books.  Sometimes  it  was  toward  the 
village  that  he  turned  his  steps;  sometimes  it 
was  toward  the  hills  back  of  the  town.  Which 
ever  way  it  was,  there  was  always  sure  to  be 
something  waiting  at  the  end  for  him  and  his 
violin  to  discover,  if  it  was  nothing  more  than 
a  big  white  rose  in  bloom,  or  a  squirrel  sitting 
by  the  roadside. 

Very  soon,  however,  David  discovered  that 
there  was  something  to  be  found  in  his  wander 
ings  besides  squirrels  and  roses;  and  that  was 

-  people.  In  spite  of  the  strangeness  of  these 
people,  they  were  wonderfully  interesting, 
David  thought.  And  after  that  he  turned  his 
steps  more  and  more  frequently  toward  the 
village  when  four  o'clock  released  him  from  the 
day's  work. 

At  first  David  did  not  talk  much  to  these 
people.  He  shrank  sensitively  from  their  bold 
stares  and  unpleasantly  audible  comments.  He 

118 


JOE 

watched  them  with  round  eyes  of  wonder  and 
interest,  however,  —  when  he  did  not  think 
they  were  watching  him.  And  in  time  he  came 
to  know  not  a  little  about  them  and  about  the 
estrange  ways  in  which  they  passed  their  time. 

There  was  the  greenhouse  man.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  spend  one's  day  growing  plants  and 
flowers  —  but  not  under  that  hot,  stifling  glass 
roof,  decided  David.  Besides,  he  would  not 
want  always  to  pick  and  send  away  the  very 
prettiest  ones  to  the  city  every  morning,  as  the 
greenhouse  man  did. 

There  was  the  doctor  who  rode  all  day  long 
behind  the  gray  mare,  making  sick  folks  well. 
David  liked  him,  and  mentally  vowed  that  he 
himself  would  be  a  doctor  sometime.  Still, 
there  was  the  stage-driver  —  David  was  not 
sure  but  he  would  prefer  to  follow  this  man's 
profession  for  a  life-work;  for  in  his,  one  could 
still  have  the  freedom  of  long  days  in  the  open, 
and  yet  not  be  saddened  by  the  sight  of  the 
sick  before  they  had  been  made  well  —  which 
was  where  the  stage-driver  had  the  better  of 
the  doctor,  in  David's  opinion.  There  were  the 
blacksmith  and  the  storekeepers,  too,  but  to 
these  David  gave  little  thought  or  attention. 

"9 


JUST  DAVID 

Though  he  might  not  know  what  he  did  want 
to  do,  he  knew  very  well  what  he  did  not.  All 
of  which  merely  goes  to  prove  that  David  was 
still  on  the  lookout  for  that  great  work  which 
his  father  had  said  was  waiting  for  him  out  in 
the  world. 

Meanwhile  David  played  his  violin.  If  he 
found  a  crimson  rambler  in  bloom  in  a  door- 
yard,  he  put  it  into  a  little  melody  of  pure  de 
light  —  that  a  woman  in  the  house  behind  the 
rambler  heard  the  music  and  was  cheered  at  her 
task,  David  did  not  know.  If  he  found  a  kitten 
at  play  in  the  sunshine,  he  put  it  into  a  riotous 
abandonment  of  tumbling  turns  and  trills  — 
that  a  fretful  baby  heard  and  stopped  its  wail 
ing,  David  also  did  not  know.  And  once,  just 
because  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  air  was  sweet, 
and  it  was  so  good  to  be  alive,  David  lifted  his 
bow  and  put  it  all  into  a  rapturous  paean  of  ring 
ing  exultation  —  that  a  sick  man  in  a  darkened 
chamber  above  the  street  lifted  his  head,  drew 
in  his  breath,  and  took  suddenly  a  new  lease 
of  life,  David  still  again  did  not  know.  All  of 
which  merely  goes  to  prove  that  David  had 
perhaps  found  his  work  and  was  doing  it  — 
although  yet  still  again  David  did  not  know. 

1 20 


JOE 

It  was  in  the  cemetery  one  afternoon  that 
David  came  upon  the  Lady  in  Black.  She  was 
on  her  knees  putting  flowers  on  a  little  mound 
Defore  her.  She  looked  up  as  David  approached, 
For  a  moment  she  gazed  wistfully  at  him;  thens 
as  if  impelled  by  a  hidden  force,  she  spoke. 

"Little  boy,  who  are  you?" 

"I'm  David." 

" David!  David  who?  Do  you  live  here? 
I've  seen  you  here  before." 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  been  here  quite  a  lot  of 
times."  Purposely  the  boy  evaded  the  ques 
tions.  David  was  getting  tired  of  questions  - 
especially  these  questions. 

"And  have  you  —  lost  one  dear  to  you,  little 
boy?" 

"Lost  some  one?" 

"  I  mean — is  your  father  or  mother — here?" 

"Here?  Oh,  no,  they  aren't  here.  My 
mother  is  an  angel-mother,  and  my  father  has 
gone  to  the  far  country.  He  is  waiting  for  me 
there,  you  know." 

"But,  that's  the  same  — that  is—"  She 
stopped  helplessly,  bewildered  eyes  on  David's 
serene  face.  Then  suddenly  a  great  light  came 
to  her  own.  "Oh,  little  boy,  I  wish  /  could  un- 

121 


JUST  DAVID 

derstand  that  —  just  that,"  she  breathed.  "It 
would  make  it  so  much  easier — if  I  could  just 
remember  that  they  are  n't  here — that  they're 
waiting  —  over  there!" 

But  David  apparently  did  not  hear.  He  had 
turned  and  was  playing  softly  as  he  walked 
away.  Silently  the  Lady  in  Black  knelt,  listen 
ing,  looking  after  him.  When  she  rose  some 
time  later  and  left  the  cemetery,  the  light  on 
her  face  was  still  there,  deeper,  more  glorified. 

Toward  boys  and  girls  — especially  boys  — 
of  his  own  age,  David  frequently  turned  wist 
ful  eyes.  David  wanted  a  friend,  a  friend  who 
would  know  and  understand;  a  friend  who 
would  see  things  as  he  saw  them,  who  would 
understand  what  he  was  saying  when  he  played. 
It  seemed  to  David  that  in  some  boy  of  his  own 
age  he  ought  to  find  such  a  friend.  He  had  seen 
many  boys  —  but  he  had  not  yet  found  the 
friend.  David  had  begun  to  think,  indeed,  that 
of  all  these  strange  beings  in  this  new  life  of  his, 
boys  were  the  strangest. 

They  stared  and  nudged  each  other  unpleas 
antly  when  they  came  upon  him  playing.  They 
jeered  when  he  tried  to  tell  them  what  he  had 
been  playing.  They  had  never  heard  of  the 

122 


JOE 

great  Orchestra  of  Life,  and  they  fell  into  most 
disconcerting  fits  of  laughter,  or  else  backed 
away  as  if  afraid,  when  he  told  them  that  they 
themselves  were  instruments  in  it,  and  that  if 
they  did  not  keep  themselves  in  tune,  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  discord  somewhere. 

Then  there  were  their  games  and  frolics. 
Such  as  were  played  with  balls,  bats,  and  bags 
of  beans,  David  thought  he  would  like  very 
much.  But  the  boys  only  scoffed  when  he 
asked  them  to  teach  him  how  to  play.  They 
laughed  when  a  dog  chased  a  cat,  and  they 
thought  it  very,  very  funny  when  Tony,  the 
old  black  man,  tripped  on  the  string  they  drew 
across  his  path.  They  liked  to  throw  stones  and 
shoot  guns,  and  the  more  creeping,  crawling,  or 
flying  creatures  that  they  could  send  to  the  far 
country,  the  happier  they  were,  apparently. 
Nor  did  they  like  it  at  all  when  he  asked  them 
if  they  were  sure  all  these  creeping,  crawling, 
flying  creatures  wanted  to  leave  this  beautiful 
world  and  to  be  made  dead.  They  sneered  and 
called  him  a  sissy.  David  did  not  know  what  a 
sissy  was;  but  from  the  way  they  said  it,  he 
judged  it  must  be  even  worse  to  be  a  sissy  than 
to  be  a  thief. 

123 


JUST  DAVID 

And  then  he  discovered  Joe. 

David  had  found  himself  in  a  very  strange, 
very  unlovely  neighborhood  that  afternoon. 
The  street  was  full  of  papers  and  tin  cans,  the 
houses  were  unspeakably  forlorn  with  sagging 
blinds  and  lack  of  paint.  Untidy  women  and 
blear-eyed  men  leaned  over  the  dilapidated 
fences,  or  lolled  on  mud-tracked  doorsteps. 
David,  his  shrinking  eyes  turning  from  one  side 
to  the  other,  passed  slowly  through  the  street, 
his  violin  under  his  arm.  Nowhere  could  David 
find  here  the  tiniest  spot  of  beauty  to  "play." 
He  had  reached  quite  the  most  forlorn  little 
shanty  on  the  street  when  the  promise  in  his 
father's  letter  occurred  to  him.  With  a  sud 
denly  illumined  face,  he  raised  his  violin  to 
position  and  plunged  into  a  veritable  whirl  of 
trills  and  runs  and  tripping  melodies. 

"If  I  did  n't  just  entirely  forget  that  I  did  n't 
need  to  see  anything  beautiful  to  play,"  laughed 
David  softly  to  himself.  "Why,  it's  already 
right  here  in  my  violin!" 

David  had  passed  the  tumble-down  shanty, 
and  was  hesitating  where  two  streets  crossed, 
when  he  felt  a  light  touch  on  his  arm.  He 
turned  to  confront  a  small  girl  in  a  patched  and 


JOE 

faded  calico  dress,  obviously  outgrown.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  and  frightened.  In  the  middle 
of  her  outstretched  dirty  little  palm  was  a  cop 
per  cent. 

"If  you  please,  Joe  sent  this  —  to  you," she 
faltered. 

"To  me?  What  for?"  David  stopped  play 
ing  and  lowered  his  violin. 

The  little  girl  backed  away  perceptibly, 
though  she  still  held  out  the  coin. 

"He  wanted  you  to  stay  and  play  some  more. 
He  said  to  tell  you  he'd  'a'  sent  more  money  if 
he  could.  But  he  did  n't  have  it.  He  just  had 
this  cent." 

David's  eyes  flew  wide  open. 

"You  mean  he  wants  me  to  play?  He  likes 
it?"  he  asked  joyfully. 

"Yes.  He  said  he  knew  'twa'n't  much  — 
the  cent.  But  he  thought  maybe  you'd  play  a 
little  for  it." 

"Play?  Of  course  I'll  play,"  cried  David. 
'Oh,  no,  I  don't  want  the  money,"  he  added, 
waving  the  again-proffered  coin  aside.  "  I  don't 
need  money  where  I'm  living  now.  Where  is 
he  —  the  one  that  wanted  me  to  play?"  he 
finished  eagerly. 

126 


JUST  DAVID 

"  In  there  by  the  window.  It's  Joe.  He's  my 
brother."  The  lit  tie  girl,  in  spite  of  her  evident 
satisfaction  at  the  accomplishment  of  her  pur 
pose,  yet  kept  quite  aloof  from  the  boy.  Nor 
did  the  fact  that  he  refused  the  money  appear 
to  bring  her  anything  but  uneasy  surprise. 
..  In  the  window  David  saw  a  boy  apparently 
about  his  own  age,  a  boy  with  sandy  hair,  pale 
cheeks,  and  wide-open,  curiously  intent  blue 
eyes. 

"Is  he  coming?  Did  you  get  him?  Will  he 
play?"  called  the  boy  at  the  window  eagerly. 

"Yes,  I'm  right  here.  I'm  the  one.  Can't 
you  see  the  violin?  Shall  I  play  here  or  come 
in?"  answered  David,  not  one  whit  less  eagerly. 

The  small  girl  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  ex 
plain  something;  but  the  boy  in  the  window  did 
not  wait. 

"Oh,  come  in.  Will  you  come  in?"  he  cried 
unbelievingly.  "And  will  you  just  let  me  touch 
it  —  the  fiddle?  Come!  You  will  come?  See, 
there  is  n't  anybody  home,  only  just  Betty 
and  me." 

"Of  course  I  will!*'  David  fairly  stumbled 
up  the  broken  steps  in  his  impatience  to  reach 
the  wide-open  door.  "Did  you  like  it  —  what 

126 


JOE 

I  played?  And  did  you  know  what  I  was  play* 
ing?  Did  you  understand?  Could  you  see  the 
cloud-boats  up  in  the  sky,  and  my  Silver  Lake 
down  in  the  valley?  And  could  you  hear  the 
birds,  and  the  winds  in  the  trees,  and  the  little 
brooks?  Could  you?  Oh,  did  you  understand? 
I've  so  wanted  to  find  some  one  that  could! 
But  I  would  n't  think  that  you  —  here  - 
With  a  gesture,  and  an  expression  on  his  face 
that  were  unmistakable,  David  came  to  a  help 
less  pause. 

"There,  Joe,  what'd  I  tell  you,"  cried  the 
little  girl,  in  a  husky  whisper,  darting  to  her 
brother's  side.  "Oh,  why  did  you  make  me  get 
him  here?  Everybody  says  he's  crazy  as  a  loon, 
and—" 

But  the  boy  reached  out  a  quickly  silencing 
hand.  His  face  was  curiously  alight,  as  if  from 
an  inward  glow.  His  eyes,  still  widely  intent, 
were  staring  straight  ahead. 

"  Stop,  Betty,  wait,"  he  hushed  her.  "  Maybe 
• —  I  think  I  do  understand.  Boy,  you  mean  — 
inside  of  you,  you  see  those  things,  and  then 
you  try  to  make  your  fiddle  tell  what  you  are 
seeing.  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  David.  "Oh,  you  do  under 
127 


JUST  DAVID 

stand.  And  I  never  thought  you  could.  I  never 
thought  that  anybody  could  that  did  n't  have 
anything  to  look  at  but  him — but  these  things." 

"'Anything  but  these  to  look  at'!"  echoed 
the  boy,  with  a  sudden  anguish  in  his  voice. 
"  Anything  but  these !  I  guess  if  I  could  see  any 
thing,  I  would  n't  mind  what  I  see !  An'  you 
would  n't,  neither,  if  you  was — blind,  like  me." 

"Blind!"  David  fell  back.  Face  and  voice 
were  full  of  horror.  "You  mean  you  can't  see 
—  anything,  with  your  eyes?" 

"NothinV 

"Oh!  I  never  saw  any  one  blind  before. 
There  was  one  in  a  book  —  but  father  took  it 
away.  Since  then,  in  books  down  here,  I've 
found  others  —  but  — " 

"Yes,  yes.  Well,  never  mind  that,"  cut  in 
the  blind  boy,  growing  restive  under  the  pity  in 
the  other's  voice.  "Play.  Won't  you?" 

"But  how  are  you  ever  going  to  know  what  a 
beautiful  world  it  is?  "  shuddered  David.  "  How 
can  you  know?  And  how  can  you  ever  play  in 
tune?  You're  one  of  the  instruments.  Father 
said  everybody  was.  And  he  said  everybody 
was  playing  something  all  the  tune;  and  if  you 
did  n't  play  in  tune  — " 

128 


JOE 

"Joe,  Joe,  please,"  begged  the  little  girL 
"Won't  you  let  him  go?  I'm  afraid.  I  told 
you—" 

"  Shucks,  Betty !  He  won't  hurt  ye,"  laughed 
Joe,  a  little  irritably.  Then  to  David  he  turned 
again  with  some  sharpness. 

"Play,  won't  ye?  You  said  you'd  play!" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,  I'll  play,"  faltered  David, 
bringing  his  violin  hastily  to  position,  and  test 
ing  the  strings  with  fingers  that  shook  a  little. 

"There!"  breathed  Joe,  settling  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  contented  sigh.  "Now,  play  it 
again  —  what  you  did  before." 

But  David  did  not  play  what  he  did  before 
—  at  first.  There  were  no  airy  cloud-boats,  no 
far-reaching  sky,  no  birds,  or  murmuring  forest 
brooks  in  his  music  this  time.  There  were  only 
the  poverty-stricken  room,  the  dirty  street,  the 
boy  alone  at  the  window,  with  his  sightless  eyes 
— <-  the  boy  who  never,  never  would  know  what 
a  beautiful  world  he  lived  in. 

Then  suddenly  to  David  came  a  new  thought., 
This  boy,  Joe,  had  said  before  that  he  under 
stood.  He  had  seemed  to  know  that  he  was 
being  told  of  the  sunny  skies  and  the  forest 
winds,  the  singing  birds  and  the  babbling 

129 


JUST  DAVID 

brooks.  Perhaps  again  now  he  would  under 
stand. 

What  if,  for  those  sightless  eyes,  one  could 
create  a  world? 

Possibly  never  before  had  David  played  as 
he  played  then.  It  was  as  if  upon  those  four 
quivering  strings,  he  was  laying  the  purple  and 
gold  of  a  thousand  sunsets,  the  rose  and  amber 
of  a  thousand  sunrises,  the  green  of  a  boundless 
earth,  the  blue  of  a  sky  that  reached  to  heaven 
itself  —  to  make  Joe  understand. 

"Gee!"  breathed  Joe,  when  the  music  came 
to  an  end  with  a  crashing  chord.  "Say,  wa'n't 
that  just  great?  Won't  you  let  me,  please,  just 
touch  that  fiddle?"  And  David,  looking  into 
the  blind  boy's  exalted  face,  knew  that  Joe  had 
indeed  —  understood. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   LADY  OF  THE   ROSES 

IT  was  a  new  world,  indeed,  that  David  created 
for  Joe  after  that  —  a  world  that  had  to  do 
with  entrancing  music  where  once  was  silence; 
delightful  companionship  where  once  was  lone 
liness;  and  toothsome  cookies  and  doughnuts 
where  once  was  hunger. 

The  Widow  Glaspell,  Joe's  mother,  worked 
out  by  the  day,  scrubbing  and  washing;  and 
Joe,  perforce,  was  left  to  the  somewhat  erratic 
and  decidedly  unskillful  ministrations  of  Betty. 
Betty  was  no  worse,  and  no  better,  than  any 
other  untaught,  irresponsible  twelve-year-old 
girl,  and  it  was  not  to  be  expected,  perhaps, 
that  she  would  care  to  spend  all  the  bright 
sunny  hours  shut  up  with  her  sorely  afflicted 
and  somewhat  fretful  brother.  True,  at  noon 
she  never  failed  to  appear  and  prepare  some 
thing  that  passed  for  a  dinner  for  herself  and 
Joe.  But  the  Glaspell  larder  was  frequently 
almost  as  empty  as  were  the  hungry  stomachs 
that  looked  to  it  for  refreshment;  and  it  would 

181 


JUST  DAVID 

have  taken  a  far  more  skillful  cook  than  was  the 
fly-away  Betty  to  evolve  anything  from  it  tha.t 
was  either  palatable  or  satisfying. 

With  the  coming  of  David  into  Joe's  life  all 
this  was  changed.  First,  there  were  the  mu 
sic  and  the  companionship.  Joe's  father  had 
"played  in  the  band"  in  his  youth,  and  (ac 
cording  to  the  Widow  Glaspell)  had  been  a 
"powerful  hand  for  music."  It  was  from  him, 
presumably,  that  Joe  had  inherited  his  passion 
for  melody  and  harmony;  and  it  was  no  wonder 
that  David  recognized  so  soon  in  the  blind  boy 
the  spirit  that  made  them  kin.  At  the  first 
stroke  of  David's  bow,  indeed,  the  dingy  walls 
about  them  would  crumble  into  nothingness, 
and  together  the  two  boys  were  off  in  a  fairy 
world  of  loveliness  and  joy. 

Nor  was  listening  always  Joe's  part.  From 
"just  touching"  the  violin  —  his  first  longing 
plea  —  he  came  to  drawing  a  timid  bow  across 
the  strings.  In  an  incredibly  short  time,  then, 
he  was  picking  out  bits  of  melody;  and  by 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  David  had  brought  his 
father's  violin  for  Joe  to  practice  on. 

"I  can't  give  it  to  you  —  not  for  keeps," 
David  had  explained,  a  bit  tremulously,  "be- 

i3a 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

cause  it  was  daddy's,  you  know;  and  when  I 
see  it,  it  seems  almost  as  if  I  was  seeing  him. 
But  you  may  take  it.  Then  you  can  have  it 
here  to  play  on  whenever  you  like." 

After  that,  in  Joe's  own  hands  lay  the  power 
to  transport  himself  into  another  world,  for  with 
the  violin  for  company  he  knew  no  loneliness. 

Nor  was  the  violin  all  that  David  brought  to 
the  house.  There  were  the  doughnuts  and  the 
cookies.  Very  early  in  his  visits  David  had 
discovered,  much  to  his  surprise,  that  Joe  and 
Betty  were  often  hungry. 

"But  why  don't  you  go  down  to  the  store 
and  buy  something?"  he  had  queried  at  once. 

Upon  being  told  that  there  was  no  money  to 
buy  with,  David's  first  impulse  had  been  to 
bring  several  of  the  gold-pieces  the  next  time 
he  came;  but  upon  second  thoughts  David  de 
cided  that  he  did  not  dare.  He  was  not  wish 
ing  to  be  called  a  thief  a  second  time.  It  would 
be  better,  he  concluded,  to  bring  some  food 
from  the  house  instead. 

In  his  mountain  home  everything  the  house 
afforded  in  the  way  of  food  had  always  been 
freely  given  to  the  few  strangers  that  found 
their  way  to  the  cabin  door.  So  now  David 

i33 


JUST  DAVID 

nad  no  hesitation  in  going  to  Mrs.  Holly's 
pantry  for  supplies,  upon  the  occasion  of  his 
next  visit  to  Joe  Glaspell's. 

Mrs.  Holly,  coming  into  the  kitchen,  found 
him  emerging  from  the  pantry  with  both  hands 
full  of  cookies  and  doughnuts. 

"Why,  David,  what  in  the  world  does  this 
mean?"  she  demanded. 

"They're  for  Joe  and  Betty,"  smiled  David 
happily. 

"For  Joe  and  —  But  those  doughnuts  and 
cookies  don't  belong  to  you.  They're  mine!" 

"Yes,  I  know  they  are.  I  told  them  you  had 
plenty,"  nodded  David. 

"  Plenty !  What  if  I  have?  "  remonstrated  Mrs. 
Holly,  in  growing  indignation.  "That  doesn't 
mean  that  you  can  take-  Something  in 
David's  face  stopped  the  words  half-spoken. 

"You  don't  mean  that  I  can't  take  them  to 
Joe  and  Betty,  do  you?  Why,  Mrs.  Holly, 
they're  hungry!  Joe  and  Betty  are.  They 
don't  have  half  enough  to  eat.  Betty  said  so. 
And  we've  got  more  than  we  want.  There's 
food  left  on  the  table  every  day.  Why,  if  you 
were  hungry,  would  n't  you  want  somebody  to 
bring—" 

i34 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

But  Mrs.  Holly  stopped  him  with  a  despair 
ing  gesture. 

"There,  there,  never  mind.  Run  along.  Of 
course  you  can  take  them.  I  'm  —  I  'm  glad  to 
have  you,"  she  finished,  in  a  desperate  attempt 
to  drive  from  David's  face  that  look  of  shocked 
incredulity  with  which  he  was  still  regarding 
her. 

Never  again  did  Mrs.  Holly  attempt  to 
thwart  David's  generosity  to  the  Glaspells; 
but  she  did  try  to  regulate  it.  She  saw  to  it 
that  thereafter,  upon  his  visits  to  the  house,  he 
took  only  certain  things  and  a  certain  amount, 
and  invariably  things  of  her  own  choosing. 

But  not  always  toward  the  Glaspell  shanty 
did  David  turn  his  steps.  Very  frequently  it 
was  in  quite  another  direction.  He  had  been 
at  the  Holly  farmhouse  three  weeks  when  he 
found  his  Lady  of  the  Roses. 

He  had  passed  quite  through  the  village  that 
day,  and  had  come  to  a  road  that  was  new  to 
him.  It  was  a  beautiful  road,  smooth,  white, 
and  firm.  Two  huge  granite  posts  topped  with 
flaming  nasturtiums  marked  the  point  where  it 
turned  off  from  the  main  highway.  Beyond 
these,  as  David  soon  found,  it  ran  between 

i35 


JUST  DAVID 

wide-spreading  lawns  and  flowering  shrubs, 
leading  up  the  gentle  slope  of  a  hill.  Where  it 
led  to,  David  did  not  know,  but  he  proceeded 
unhesitatingly  to  try  to  find  out.  For  some 
time  he  climbed  the  slope  in  silence,  his  violin, 
mute,  under  his  arm;  but  the  white  road  still 
lay  in  tantalizing  mystery  before  him  when'a  by 
path  offered  the  greater  temptation,  and  lured 
him  to  explore  its  cool  shadowy  depths  instead. 

Had  David  but  known  it,  he  was  at  Sunny- 
crest,  Hinsdale's  one  "show  place,"  the  country 
home  of  its  one  really  rich  resident,  Miss  Bar 
bara  Holbrook.  Had  he  also  but  known  it, 
Miss  Holbrook  was  not  celebrated  for  her  gra- 
ciousness  to  any  visitors,  certainly  not  to  those 
who  ventured  to  approach  her  otherwise  than 
by  a  conventional  ring  at  her  front  doorbell. 
But  David  did  not  know  all  this;  and  he  there 
fore  very  happily  followed  the  shady  path  until 
he  came  to  the  Wonder  at  the  end  of  it. 

The  Wonder,  in  Hinsdale  parlance,  was  only 
Miss  Holbrook's  garden,  but  in  David's  eyes  it 
was  fairyland  come  true.  For  one  whole  minute 
he  could  only  stand  like  a  very  ordinary  little 
boy  and  stare.  At  the  end  of  the  minute  he 
became  himself  once  more;  and  being  himself, 

186 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

he  expressed  his  delight  at  once  in  the  only  way 
he  knew  how  to  do  —  by  raising  his  violin  and 
beginning  to  play. 

He  had  meant  to  tell  of  the  limpid  pool  and 
of  the  arch  of  the  bridge  it  reflected;  of  the 
terraced  lawns  and  marble  steps,  and  of  the 
gleaming  white  of  the  sculptured  nymphs  ana 
fauns;  of  the  splashes  of  glorious  crimson,  yel 
low,  blush-pink,  and  snowy  white  against  the 
green,  where  the  roses  rioted  in  luxurious  bloom. 
He  had  meant,  also,  to  tell  of  the  Queen  Rose  of 
them  all  —  the  beauteous  lady  with  hair  like 
the  gold  of  sunrise,  and  a  gown  like  the  shim 
mer  of  the  moon  on  water  —  of  all  this  he  had 
meant  to  tell;  but  he  had  scarcely  begun  to  tell 
it  at  all  when  the  Beauteous  Lady  of  the  Roses 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  became  so  very  much 
like  an  angry  young  woman  who  is  seriously 
displeased  that  David  could  only  lower  his 
violin  in  dismay. 

"Why,  boy,  what  does  this  mean?"  she  de 
manded. 

David  sighed  a  little  impatiently  as  he  carnr 
forward  into  the  sunlight. 

"But  I  was  just  telling  you,"  he  remon 
strated,  "and  you  would  not  let  me  finish." 


JUST  DAVID 

"Telling  me!" 

"Yes,  with  my  violin.  Couldn't  you  under 
stand?"  appealed  the  boy  wistfully.  "You 
Booked  as  if  you  could!" 

"Looked  as  if  I  could!" 

"Yes.  Joe  understood,  you  see,  and  I  was 
surprised  when  he  did.  But  I  was  just  sure 
you  could  —  with  all  this  to  look  at." 

The  lady  frowned.  Half-unconsciously  she 
glanced  about  her  as  if  contemplating  flight. 
Then  she  turned  back  to  the  boy. 

"But  how  came  you  here?  Who  are  you?" 
she  cried. 

"I'm  David.  I  walked  here  through  the  lit 
tle  path  back  there.  I  did  n't  know  where  it 
went  to,  but  I'm  so  glad  now  I  found  out!" 

"Oh,  are  you!"  murmured  the  lady,  with 
slightly  uplifted  brows. 

She  was  about  to  tell  him  very  coldly  that 
now  that  he  had  found  his  way  there  he  might 
occupy  himself  in  finding  it  home  again,  when 
the  boy  interposed  rapturously,  his  eyes  sweep 
ing  the  scene  before  him :  — 

"Yes.  I  did  n't  suppose,  anywhere,  down 
here,  there  was  a  place  one  half  so  beauti 
ful!" 

i38 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

An  odd  feeling  of  uncanniness  sent  a  swift 
exclamation  to  the  lady's  lips. 

" 'Down  here' !  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
You  speak  as  if  you  came  from  —  above,"  she 
almost  laughed. 

"I  did,"  returned  David  simply.  "But  even 
up  there  I  never  found  anything  quite  like 
this,"  —  with  a  sweep  of  his  hands,-  "nor 
like  you,  0  Lady  of  the  Roses,"  he  finished 
with  an  admiration  that  was  as  open  as  it  was 
ardent. 

This  time  the  lady  laughed  outright.  She 
even  blushed  a  little. 

"Very  prettily  put,  Sir  Flatterer,"  she  re 
torted;  "but  when  you  are  older,  young  man, 
you  won't  make  your  compliments  quite  so 
broad.  I  am  no  Lady  of  the  Roses.  I  am  Miss 
Holbrook;  and  —  and  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
receiving  gentlemen  callers  who  are  uninvited 
and  —  unannounced,"  she  concluded,  a  little 
sharply. 

Pointless  the  shaft  fell  at  David's  feet.  He 
had  turned  again  to  the  beauties  about  him, 
and  at  that  moment  he  spied  the  sundial  — 
something  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried  eagerly,  hurrying 
189 


JUST  DAVID 

forward.  "It  isn't  exactly  pretty,  and  yet  it 
looks  as  if  't  were  meant  for  —  something." 

"It  is.  It  is  a  sundial.  It  marks  the  time  by 
the  sun." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  Miss  Holbrook  wondered 
why  she  answered  the  question  at  all;  why 
she  did  not  send  this  small  piece  of  noncha 
lant  impertinence  about  his  business,  as  he 
so  richly  deserved.  The  next  instant  she  found 
herself  staring  at  the  boy  in  amazement.  With 
unmistakable  ease,  and  with  the  trained  accent 
of  the  scholar,  he  was  reading  aloud  the  Latin 
inscription  on  the  dial:  "'Horas  non  numero 
nisi  serenas/  '  I  count  —  no  —  hours  but  — 
unclouded  ones,'"  he  translated  then,  slowly, 
though  with  confidence.  "That's  pretty;  but 
what  does  it  mean  —  about  'counting'?" 

Miss  Holbrook  rose  to  her  feet. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  boy,  who,  and  what  are 
you?"  she  demanded.   "Can  you  read  Latin?" 

"Why,  of  course!  Can't  you?" 

With  a  disdainful  gesture   Miss  Holbrook 
'swept  this  aside. 

"Boy,  who  are  you?"  she  demanded  again 
imperatively. 

"I'm  David.  I  told  you." 
i4o 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

"But  David  who?  Where  do  you  live?" 

The  boy's  face  clouded. 

"  I  'm  David  —  just  David.  I  live  at  Farmer 
Holly's  now;  but  I  did  live  on  the  mountain 
with  —  father,  you  know." 

A  great  light  of  understanding  broke  over 
Miss  Holbrook's  face.  She  dropped  back  into 
her  seat. 

"Oh,  I  remember,*'  she  murmured.  "You're 
the  little  —  er  —  boy  whom  he  took.  I  have 
heard  the  story.  So  that  is  who  you  are,"  she 
added,  the  old  look  of  aversion  coming  back 
to  her  eyes.  She  had  almost  said  "the  little 
tramp  boy"  —  but  she  had  stopped  in  time. 

"Yes.  And  now  what  do  they  mean,  please, 
—  those  words,  —  '  I  count  no  hours  but  un 
clouded  ones'?" 

Miss  Holbrook  stirred  in  her  seat  and 
frowned. 

"Why,  it  means  what  it  says,  of  course,  boy. 
A  sundial  counts  its  hours  by  the  shadow  the 
sun  throws,  and  when  there  is  no  sun  there  is 
no  shadow;  hence  it's  only  the  sunny  hours 
that  are  counted  by  the  dial,"  she  explained  £ 
little  fretfully. 

David's  face  radiated  delight. 


JUST  DAVID 

"Oh,  but  I  like  that!"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  like  it!" 

"Yes.  I  should  like  to  be  one  myself,  you 
know." 

"Well,  really!  And  how,  pray?"  In  spite  of 
herself  a  faint  gleam  of  interest  came  into  Miss 
Holbrook's  eyes. 

David  laughed  and  dropped  himself  easily  to 
the  ground  at  her  feet.  He  was  holding  his 
violin  on  his  knees  now. 

"Why,  it  would  be  such  fun,"  he  chuckled, 
"to  just  forget  all  about  the  hours  when  the 
sun  did  n't  shine,  and  remember  only  the  nice, 
pleasant  ones.  Now  for  me,  there  would  n't  be 
any  hours,  really,  until  after  four  o'clock,  ex 
cept  little  specks  of  minutes  that  I'd  get  in 
between  when  I  did  see  something  interesting." 

Miss  Holbrook  stared  frankly. 

"What  an  extraordinary  boy  you  are,  to  be 
sure,"  she  murmured.  "And  what,  may  I  ask, 
is  it  that  you  do  every  day  until  four  o'clock, 
that  you  wish  to  forget?" 

David  sighed. 

"Well,  there  are  lots  of  things.  I  hoed  pota 
toes  and  corn,  first,  but  they're  too  big  now, 
mostly;  and  I  pulled  up  weeds,  too,  till  they 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

were  gone.  I  've  been  picking  up  stones,  lately, 
and  clearing  up  the  yard.  Then,  of  courser 
there's  always  the  woodbox  to  fill,  and  the  eggs 
to  hunt,  besides  the  chickens  to  feed,  —  though 
I  don't  mind  them  so  much;  but  I  do  the  other 
things,  'specially  the  weeds.  They  were  so  much 
prettier  than  the  things  I  had  to  let  grow, 
'most  always." 

Miss  Holbrook  laughed. 

"Well,  they  were;  and,  really,"  persisted  the 
boy,  in  answer  to  the  merriment  in  her  eyes; 
"now  would  n't  it  be  nice  to  be  like  the  sundial, 
and  forget  everything  the  sun  did  n't  shine  on? 
Would  n't  you  like  it?  Is  n't  there  anything 
you  want  to  forget?" 

Miss  Holbrook  sobered  instantly.  The  change 
in  her  face  was  so  very  marked,  indeed,  that 
involuntarily  David  looked  about  for  some 
thing  that  might  have  cast  upon  it  so  great  a 
shadow.  For  a  long  minute  she  did  not  speak; 
then  very  slowly,  very  bitterly,  she  said  aloud 
—  yet  as  if  to  herself:  — 

"Yes.  If  I  had  my  way  I'd  forget  them 
every  one  —  these  hours;  every  single  one!" 

"Oh,  Lady  of  the  Roses!"  expostulated 
David  in  a  voice  quivering  with  shocked 

i43 


JUST  DAVID 

dismay.  "You  don't  mean  —  you  can't  mean 
that  you  don't  have  any —  sun!" 

"I  mean  just  that,"  bowed  Miss  Holbrook 
wearily,  her  eyes  on  the  somber  shadows  of  the 
pool;  "just  that!" 

David  sat  stunned,  confounded.  Across  the 
marble  steps  and  the  terraces  the  shadows 
lengthened,  and  David  watched  them  as  the 
sun  dipped  behind  the  tree-tops.  They  seemed 
to  make  more  vivid  the  chill  and  the  gloom  of 
the  lady's  words  —  more  real  the  day  that 
had  no  sun.  After  a  time  the  boy  picked  up 
his  violin  and  began  to  play,  softly,  and  at  first 
with  evident  hesitation.  Even  when  his  touch 
became  more  confident,  there  was  still  in  the 
music  a  questioning  appeal  that  seemed  to  find 
no  answer  —  an  appeal  that  even  the  player 
himself  could  not  have  explained. 

For  long  minutes  the  young  woman  and  the 
boy  sat  thus  in  the  twilight.  Then  suddenly 
the  woman  got  to  her  feet. 

"Gome,  come,  boy,  what  can  I  be  thinking 
of?"  she  cried  sharply.  "I  must  go  in  and  you 
must  go  home.  Good-night."  And  she  swept 
across  the  grass  to  the  path  that  led  toward 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

JACK  AND   JILL 

DAVID  was  tempted  to  go  for  a  second  visit  to 
his  Lady  of  the  Roses,  but  something  he  coukl 
not  define  held  him  back.  The  lady  was  in  his 
mind  almost  constantly,  however;  and  very 
vivid  to  him  was  the  picture  of  the  garden, 
though  always  it  was  as  he  had  seen  it  last 
with  the  hush  and  shadow  of  twilight,  and  with 
the  lady's  face  gloomily  turned  toward  the  sun 
less  pool.  David  could  not  forget  that  for  her 
there  were  no  hours  to  count;  she  had  said  it 
herself.  He  could  not  understand  how  this 
could  be  so;  and  the  thought  filled  him  with 
vague  unrest  and  pain. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  restlessness  that  drove 
David  to  explore  even  more  persistently  the 
village  itself,  sending  him  into  new  streets  in 
search  of  something  strange  and  interesting. 
One  day  the  sound  of  shouts  and  laughter  drew 
him  to  an  open  lot  back  of  the  church  where 
some  boys  were  at  play. 

David  still  knew  very  little  of  boys.   In  his 


JUST  DAVID 

mountain  home  he  had  never  had  them  for 
playmates,  and  he  had  not  seen  much  of  them 
when  he  went  with  his  father  to  the  mountain 
village  for  supplies.  There  had  been,  it  is  true, 
the  boy  who  frequently  brought  milk  and  eggs 
to  the  cabin;  but  he  had  been  very  quiet  and 
shy,  appearing  always  afraid  and  anxious  to  get 
away,  as  if  he  had  been  told  not  to  stay.  More 
recently,  since  David  had  been  at  the  Holly 
farmhouse,  his  experience  with  boys  had  been 
even  less  satisfying.  The  boys  —  with  the  ex 
ception  of  blind  Joe  —  had  very  clearly  let  it 
be  understood  that  they  had  little  use- for  a 
youth  who  could  find  nothing  better  to  do  than 
to  tramp  through  the  woods  and  the  streets 
with  a  fiddle  under  his  arm. 

To-day,  however,  there  came  a  change.  Per 
haps  they  were  more  used  to  him;  or  perhaps 
they  had  decided  suddenly  that  it  might  be 
good  fun  to  satisfy  their  curiosity,  anyway,  re 
gardless  of  consequences.  Whatever  it  was,  the 
lads  hailed  his  appearance  with  wild  shouts  of 
glee. 

"Golly,  boys,  look!  Here's  the  fiddlin'  kid," 
yelled  one;  and  the  others  joined  in  the 
"Hurrah!"  he  gave. 

i46 


JACK  AND  JILL 

David  smiled  delightedly;  once  more  he  had 
tound  some  one  who  wanted  him  —  and  it  was 
so  nice  to  be  wanted !  Truth  to  tell,  David  had 
felt  not  a  little  hurt  at  the  persistent  avoidance 
of  all  those  boys  and  girls  of  his  own  age. 

"How  —  how  do  you  do?"  he  said  diffi 
dently,  but  still  with  that  beaming  smile. 

Again  the  boys  shouted  gleefully  as  they 
hurried  forward.  Several  had  short  sticks  in 
their  hands.  One  had  an  old  tomato  can  with 
a  string  tied  to  it.  The  tallest  boy  had  some 
thing  that  he  was  trying  to  hold  beneath  his 
coat. 

"'H  —  how  do  you  do?'"  they  mimicked. 
"How  do  you  do,  fiddlin'  kid?" 

"I'm  David;  my  name  is  David."  The  re 
minder  was  graciously  given,  with  a  smile. 

"David!  David!  His  name  is  David," 
chanted  the  boys,  as  if  they  were  a  comic-opera 
chorus. 

David  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  sing  it  again,  sing  it  again!"  he  crowed. 
"That  sounded  fine!" 

The  boys  stared,  then  sniffed  disdainfully, 
and  cast  derisive  glances  into  each  other's 
eyes  —  it  appeared  that  this  little  sissy  tramp 


JUST  DAVID 

boy  did  not  even  know  enough  10  discover 
when  he  was  being  laughed  at ! 

"David!  David!  His  name  is  David,"  they 
jeered  into  his  face  again.  "Come  on,  tune  her 
up!  We  want  ter  dance." 

"Play?  Of  course  I'll  play,"  cried  David 
joyously,  raising  his  violin  and  testing  a  string 
for  its  tone. 

"Here,  hold  on,"  yelled  the  tallest  boy. 
"The  Queen  o'  the  Ballet  ain't  ready."  And 
he  cautiously  pulled  from  beneath  his  coat  a 
struggling  kitten  with  a  perforated  bag  tied 
over  its  head. 

"Sure!  We  want  her  in  the  middle,"  grinned 
the  boy  with  the  tin  can.  "Hold  on  till  I  get 
her  train  tied  to  her,"  he  finished,  trying  to 
capture  the  swishing,  fluffy  tail  of  the  frightened 
little  cat. 

David  had  begun  to  play,  but  he  stopped 
his  music  with  a  discordant  stroke  of  the 
bow. 

"What  are  you  doing?  What  is  the  matter 
with  that  cat?"  he  demanded. 

"'Matter'!"  called  a  derisive  voice.  "Sure, 
no  thin*  's  the  matter  with  her.  She's  the  Queen 
o' the  Ballet  — she  is!" 


JACK  AND  JILL 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  David.  At  that 
moment  the  string  bit  hard  into  the  captured 
tail,  and  the  kitten  cried  out  with  the  pain. 
"Look  out!  You're  hurting  her,"  cautioned 
David  sharply. 

Only  a  laugh  and  a  jeering  word  answered. 
Then  the  kitten,  with  the  bag  on  its  head  and 
the  tin  can  tied  to  its  tail,  was  let  warily  to  the 
ground,  the  tall  boy  still  holding  its  back  with 
both  hands. 

"Ready,  now!  Come  on,  play,"  he  ordered; 
"then  we'll  set  her  dancing." 

David's  eyes  flashed. 

"  I  will  not  play  --  for  that." 

The  boys  stopped  laughing  suddenly. 

"Eh?  What?"  They  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  surprised  if  the  kitten  itself  had  said 
the  words. 

"  I  say  I  won't  play  —  I  can't  play  —  unless 
you  let  that  cat  go." 

"Hoity-toity!  Won't  ye  hear  that  now?'* 
laughed  a  mocking  voice.  "And  what  if  we  say 
we  won't  let  her  go,  eh?  " 

"Then  I'll  make  you,"  vowed  David,  aflame 
with  a  newborn  something  that  seemed  to  have 
sprung  full-grown  into  being. 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yow!"  hooted  the  tallest  boy,  removing 
both  hands  from  the  captive  kitten. 

The  kitten,  released,  began  to  back  franti 
cally.  The  can,  dangling  at  its  heels,  rattled 
and  banged  and  thumped,  until  the  frightened 
little  creature,  crazed  with  terror,  became  noth 
ing  but  a  whirling  mass  of  misery.  The  boys, 
formed  now  into  a  crowing  circle  of  delight,  kept 
the  kitten  within  bounds,  and  flouted  David 
mercilessly. 

"Ah,  ha!  —  stop  us,  will  ye?  Why  don't  ye 
stop  us?"  they  gibed. 

For  a  moment  David  stood  without  move 
ment,  his  eyes  staring.  The  next  instant  he 
turned  and  ran.  The  jeers  became  a  chorus  of 
triumphant  shouts  then  —  but  not  for  long. 
David  had  only  hurried  to  the  woodpile  to  lay 
down  his  violin.  He  came  back  then,  on  the 
run  —  and  before  the  tallest  boy  could  catch 
his  breath  he  was  felled  by  a  stinging  blow  on 
the  jaw. 

Over  by  the  church  a  small  girl,  red-haired 
and  red-eyed,  clambered  hastily  over  the  fence 
behind  which  for  long  minutes  she  had  been 
crying  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"He'll  be  killed,  he'll  be  killed,"  she  moaned. 
i5o 


JACK  AND  JILL 

"And  it's  my  fault,  'cause  it's  my  kitty  —  it's 
my  kitty,"  she  sobbed,  straining  her  eyes  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  kitten's  protector  in  the 
squirming  mass  of  legs  and  arms. 

The  kitten,  unheeded  now  by  the  boys,  was 
pursuing  its  backward  whirl  to  destruction 
some  distance  away,  and  very  soon  the  little 
girl  discovered  her.  With  a  bound  and  a  chok 
ing  cry  she  reached  the  kitten,  removed  the  bag 
and  unbound  the  cruel  string.  Then,  sitting  on 
the  ground,  a  safe  distance  away,  she  soothed 
the  palpitating  little  bunch  of  gray  fur,  and 
watched  with  fearful  eyes  the  fight. 

And  what  a  fight  it  was!  There  was  no  ques 
tion,  of  course,  as  to  its  final  outcome,  with  six 
against  one;  but  meanwhile  the  one  was  giving 
the  six  the  surprise  of  their  lives  in  the  shape 
of  well-dealt  blows  and  skillful  twists  and  turns 
that  caused  their  own  strength  and  weight  to 
react  upon  themselves  in  a  most  astonishing 
fashion.  The  one  unmistakably  was  getting  the 
worst  of  it,  however,  when  the  little  girl,  after 
a  hurried  dash  to  the  street,  brought  back 
with  her  to  the  rescue  a  tall,  smooth-shaven 
young  man  whom  she  had  hailed  from  afar  as 
"Jack." 


JUST  DAVID 

Jack  put  a  stop  to  things  at  once.  With 
vigorous  jerks  and  pulls  he  unsnarled  the  writh 
ing  mass,  boy  by  boy,  each  one  of  whom,  upon 
catching  sight  of  his  face,  slunk  hurriedly  away, 
;as  if  glad  to  escape  so  lightly.  There  was  left 
finally  upon  the  ground  only  David  alone.  But 
when  David  did  at  last  appear,  the  little  girl 
burst  into  tears  anew. 

"Oh,  Jack,  he's  killed—  I  know  he's  killed," 
she  wailed.  "And  he  was  so  nice  and  —  and 
pretty.  And  now — look  at  him!  Ain't  he  a 
sight?"  . 

David  was  not  killed,  but  he  was  —  a  sight. 
His  blouse  was  torn,  his  tie  was  gone,  and  his 
face  and  hands  were  covered  with  dirt  and 
blood.  Above  one  eye  was  an  ugly-looking 
lump,  and  below  the  other  was  a  red  bruise. 
Somewhat  dazedly  he  responded  to  the  man's 
helpful  hand,  pulled  himself  upright,  and 
looked  about  him.  He  did  not  see  the  little  girl 
behind  him. 

"Where's  the  cat?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

The  unexpected  happened  then.  With  a  sob 
bing  cry  the  little  girl  flung  herself  upon  him, 
cat  and  all. 

"Here,  right  here,"  she  choked.  "And  it  was 

1 52 


JACK  AND  JILL 

you  who  saved  her  —  my  Juliette!   And  I'll 
Jove  you,  love  you,  love  you  always  for  it!" 

"There,  there,  Jill,"  interposed  the  man  a 
little  hurriedly.  "Suppose  we  first  show  our 
gratitude  by  seeing  if  ,we  can't  do  something 
to  make  our  young  warrior  here  more  com 
fortable."  And  he  began  to  brush  off  with  his 
handkerchief  some  of  the  accumulated  dirt. 

"Why  can't  we  take  him  home,  Jack,  and 
clean  him  up  'fore  other  folks  see  him?"  sug 
gested  the  girl. 

The  boy  turned  quickly. 

"Did  you  call  him  'Jack'?" 

"Yes." 

"And  he  called  you 'Jill'?" 

"Yes." 

"The  real  'Jack  and  Jill'  that  'went  up  the 
hill'?" 

The  man  and  the  girl  laughed;  but  the  girl 
shook  her  head  as  she  answered,  — 

"Not  really —  though  we  do  go  up  a  hill,  all 
right,  every  day.  But  those  are  n't  even  our 
own  names.  We  just  call  each  other  that  for  fun. 
Don't  you  ever  call  things  —  for  fun?" 

David's  face  lighted  up  in  spite  of  the  dirt, 
the  lump,  and  the  bruise. 

i53 


JUST  DAVID 

"Oh,  do  you  do  that?"  he  breathed.  "Say, 
I  just  know  I'd  like  to  play  to  you!  You'd 
understand!" 

"Oh,  yes,  and  he  plays,  too,"  explained  the 
little  girl,  turning  to  the  man  rapturously.  "  On 
a  fiddle,  you  know,  like  you." 
.  She  had  not  finished  her  sentence  before 
David  was  away,  hurrying  a  little  unsteadily 
across  the  lot  for  his  violin.  When  he  came  back 
the  man  was  looking  at  him  with  an  anxious 
frown. 

"  Suppose  you  come  home  with  us,  boy,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  n't  far  —  through  the  hill  pasture, 
'cross  lots,  —  and  we'll  look  you  over  a  bit- 
That  lump  over  your  eye  needs  attention." 

"Thank  you,"  beamed  David.  "I'd  like  to 
go,  and  —  I'm  glad  you  want  me!"  He  spoke 
to  the  man,  but  he  looked  at  the  little  red 
headed  girl,  who  still  held  the  gray  kitten  in 
her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ANSWERS  THAT  DID  NOT  ANSWER 

"JACK  and  Jill,"  it  appeared,  were  a  brother 
and  sister  who  lived  in  a  tiny  house  on  a  hill 
directly  across  the  creek  from  Sunnycrest.  Be 
yond  this  David  learned  little  until  after  bumps 
and  bruises  and  dirt  had  been  carefully  attended 
to.  He  had  then,  too,  some  questions  to  answer 
concerning  himself. 

"And  now,  if  you  please,"  began  the  man 
smilingly,  as  he  surveyed  the  boy  with  an  eye 
that  could  see  no  further  service  to  be  rendered, 
"do  you  mind  telling  me  who  you  are,  and  how 
you  came  to  be  the  center  of  attraction  for  the 
blows  and  cuffs  of  six  boys?'* 

"  I  'm  David,  and  I  wanted  the  cat,"  returned 
the  boy  simply. 

"Well,  that's  direct  and  to  the  point,  to  say 
the  least,"  laughed  the  man.  "Evidently,  how 
ever,  you're  in  the  habit  of  being  that.  But, 
David,  there  were  six  of  them,  —  those  boys,  — 
and  some  of  them  were  larger  than  you." 

"Yes,  sir." 

i55 


JUST  DAVID 

"And  they  were  so  bad  and  cruel,"  chimed 
in  the  little  girl. 

The  man  hesitated,  then  questioned  slowly; 

"And  may  I  ask  you  where  you  —  er  — 
learned  to  —  fight  like  that?" 

"  I  used  to  box  with  father.  He  said  I  must 
first  be  well  and  strong.  He  taught  me  jiujitsu, 
too,  a  little;  but  I  could  n't  make  it  work  very 
well  —  with  so  many." 

"I  should  say  not,"  adjudged  the  man 
grimly.  "But  you  gave  them  a  surprise  or  two, 
I  '11  warrant,"  he  added,  his  eyes  on  the  cause 
of  the  trouble,  now  curled  in  a  little  gray  bunch 
of  content  on  the  window  sill.  "But  I  don't 
know  yet  who  you  are.  Who  is  your  father? 
Where  does  he  live?" 

David  shook  his  head.  As  was  always  the 
case  when  his  father  was  mentioned,  his  face 
grew  wistful  and  his  eyes  dreamy. 

"He  does  n't  live  here  anywhere,"  mur 
mured  the  boy.  "In  the  far  country  he  is 
waiting  for  me  to  come  to  him  and  tell  him  of 
the  beautiful  world  I  have  found,  you  know." 

"Eh?  What?"  stammered  the  man,  not 
knowing  whether  to  believe  his  eyes,  or  his 
ears.  This  boy  who  fought  like  a  demon  and 

166 


ANSWERS  THAT  DID  NOT  ANSWER 

talked  like  a  saint,  and  who,  though  battered 
and  bruised,  prattled  of  the  "beautiful  world" 
he  had  found,  was  most  disconcerting. 

"Why,  Jack,  don't  you  know?"  whispered 
the  little  girl  agitatedly.    "He's  the  boy  at» 
Mr.  Holly's  that  they  took."  Then,  still  more 
softly:  "He's  the  little  tramp  boy.  His  father 
died  in  the  barn." 

"Oh,"  said  the  man,  his  face  clearing,  and 
his  eyes  showing  a  quick  sympathy.  "You're 
the  boy  at  the  Holly  farmhouse,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  he  plays  the  fiddle  everywhere,"  vol 
unteered  the  little  girl,  with  ardent  admira 
tion.  "If  you  hadn't  been  shut  up  sick  just 
now,  you'd  have  heard  him  yourself.  He  plays 
everywhere  —  everywhere  he  goes." 

"Is  that  so?"  murmured  Jack  politely,  shud 
dering  a  little  at  what  he  fancied  would  come 
from  a  violin  played  by  a  boy  like  the  one  be 
fore  him.  (Jack  could  play  the  violin  himself 
a  little  —  enough  to  know  it  some,  and  love  it 
more.)  " Hm-m ;  well,  and  what  else  do  you  do?  " 

"Nothing,  except  to  go  for  walks  and  read." 

"Nothing! — a  big  boy  like  you  —  and  on 
Simeon  Holly's  farm?"  Voice  and  manner 

167 


JUST  DAVID 

showed  that  Jack  was  not  unacquainted  with 
Simeon  Holly  and  his  methods  and  opinions. 

David  laughed  gleefully. 

"Oh,  of  course,  really  I  do  lots  of  things, 

only  I  don't  count  those  any  more.  'Horas  non 

'numero  nisi  serenas,'  you  know,"  he  quoted 

pleasantly,  smiling  into  the  man's  astonished 

eyes. 

"Jack,  what  was  that  —  what  he  said?" 
whispered  the  little  girl.  "It  sounded  foreign. 
Is  he  foreign?" 

"You've  got  me,  Jill,"  retorted  the  man,  with 
a  laughing  grimace.  "  Heaven  only  knows  what 
he  is  —  I  don't.  What  he  said  was  Latin;  I  do 
happen  to  know  that.  Still"  -he  turned  to 
the  boy  ironically —  "of  course  you  know  the 
translation  of  that,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes.  'I  count  no  hours  but  unclouded 
ones'  —  and  I  liked  that.  'T  was  on  a  sundial, 
you  know;  and  I'm  going  to  be  a  sundial,  and 
not  count  the  hours  I  don't  like — while  I'm 
pulling  up  weeds,  and  hoeing  potatoes,  and 
picking  up  stones,  and  all  that.  Don't  you 
see?" 

For  a  moment  the  man  stared  dumbly. 
Then  he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

i58 


ANSWERS  THAT  DID  NOT  ANSWER 

"Well,  by  George!"  he  muttered.  "By 
George!"  And  he  laughed  again.  Then:  "And 
did  your  father  teach  you  that,  too?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  no,  —  well,  he  taught  me  Latin,  and 
so  of  course  I  could  read  it  when  I  found  it. 
But  those  'special  words  I  got  off  the  sundiai 
where  my  Lady  of  the  Roses  lives." 

"Your  — Lady  of  the  Roses!  And  who  is 
she?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know?  You  live  right  in 
sight  of  her  house,"  cried  David,  pointing  to 
the  towers  of  Sunnycrest  that  showed  above 
the  trees.  "It's  over  there  she  lives.  I  know 
those  towers  now,  and  I  look  for  them  wherever 
I  go.  I  love  them.  It  makes  me  see  all  over 
again  the  roses  —  and  her." 

"You  mean  —  Miss  Holbrook?" 

The  voice  was  so  different  from  the  genial 
tones  that  he  had  heard  before  that  David 
looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  she  said  that  was  her  name,"  he  an 
swered,  wondering  at  the  indefinable  change 
that  had  come  to  the  man's  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  the  mac 
rose  to  his  feet. 


JUST  DAVID 

"How's  your  head?  Does  it  ache?"  he  asked 
briskly. 

"Not  much  —  some.  I  —  I  think  I'll  be 
going,"  replied  David,  a  little  awkwardly,  reach 
ing  for  his  violin,  and  unconsciously  showing 
by  his  manner  the  sudden  chill  in  the  atmos 
phere. 

The  Kttle  girl  spoke  then.  She  overwhelmed 
him  again  with  thanks,  and  pointed  to  the  con 
tented  kitten  on  the  window  sill.  True,  she  did 
not  tell  him  this  time  that  she  would  love,  love, 
love  him  always;  but  she  beamed  upon  him 
gratefully,  and  she  urged  him  to  come  soon 
again,  and  often. 

David  bowed  himself  off,  with  many  a  back 
ward  wave  of  the  hand,  and  many  a  promise 
to  come  again.  Not  until  he  had  quite  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  hill  did  he  remember  that  the 
man,  "Jack,"  had  said  almost  nothing  at  the 
last.  As  David  recollected  him,  indeed,  he  had 
last  been  seen  standing  beside  one  of  the  ve 
randa  posts,  with  gloomy  eyes  fixed  on  the 
towers  of  Sunnycrest  that  showed  red-gold 
above  the  tree-tops  in  the  last  rays  of  the  set 
ting  sun. 

It  was  a  bad  half-hour  that  David  spent  at 
160 


ANSWERS  THAT  DID  NOT  ANSWER 

the  Holly  farmhouse  in  explanation  of  his  torn 
blouse  and  bruised  face.  Farmer  Holly  did  not 
approve  of  fights,  and  he  said  so,  very  sternly 
indeed.  Even  Mrs.  Holly,  who  was  usually  so 
kind  to  him,  let  David  understand  that  he  was 
in  deep  disgrace,  though  she  was  very  tender  to 
his  wounds. 

David  did  venture  to  ask  her,  however,  be 
fore  he  went  upstairs  to  bed :  — 

"Mrs.  Holly,  who  are  those  people  —  Jack 
and  Jill  —  that  were  so  good  to  me  this  after 
noon?" 

"They  are  John  Gurnsey  and  his  sister, 
Julia;  but  the  whole  town  knows  them  by  the 
names  they  long  ago  gave  themselves,  'Jack' 
and 'Jill.'" 

"And  do  they  live  all  alone  in  the  little 
house?" 

"Yes,  except  for  the  Widow  Glaspell,  who 
comes  in  several  times  a  week,  I  believe,  to 
cook  and  wash  and  sweep.  They  are  n't  very 
happy,  I'm  afraid,  David,  and  I'm  glad  you 
could  rescue  the  little  girl's  kitten  for  her  —  but 
you  must  n't  fight.  No  good  can  come  of  fight 
ing!" 

"  I  got  the  cat  —  by  fighting." 
161 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;  but-  She  did  not 
finish  her  sentence,  and  David  was  only  waiting 
for  a  pause  to  ask  another  question. 

"Why  are  n't  they  happy,  Mrs.  Holly?" 

"Tut,  tut,  David,  it's  a  long  story,  and  you 
would  n't  understand  it  if  I  told  it.  It's  only 
that  they're  all  alone  in  the  world,  and  Jack 
Gurnsey  is  n't  well.  He  must  be  thirty  years 
old  now.  He  had  bright  hopes  not  so  long  ago 
studying  law,  or  something  of  the  sort,  in  the 
city.  Then  his  father  died,  and  his  mother,  and 
he  lost  his  health.  Something  ails  his  lungs, 
and  the  doctors  sent  him  here  to  be  out  of 
doors.  He  even  sleeps  out  of  doors,  they  say. 
Anyway,  he's  here,  and  he's  making  a  home 
for  his  sister;  but,  of  course,  with  his  hopes  and 
ambitions-  But  there,  David,  you  don't 
understand,  of  course!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  breathed  David,  his  eyes 
pensively  turned  toward  a  shadowy  corner. 
"He  found  his  work  out  in  the  world,  and  then 
he  had  to  stop  and  could  n't  do  it.  Poof  Mr. 
Jack!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   SURPRISE   FOR  MR.   JACK 

LIFE  at  the  Holly  farmhouse  was  not  what  it 
had  been.  The  coming  of  David  had  intro 
duced  new  elements  that  promised  complica 
tions.  Not  because  he  was  another  mouth  to 
feed  —  Simeon  Holly  was  not  worrying  about 
that  part  any  longer.  Crops  showed  good 
promise,  and  all  ready  in  the  bank  even  now 
was  the  necessary  money  to  cover  the  dreaded 
note,  due  the  last  of  August.  The  complicating 
elements  in  regard  to  David  were  of  quite 
another  nature. 

To  Simeon  Holly  the  boy  was  a  riddle  to  be 
sternly  solved.  To  Ellen  Holly  he  was  an  ever- 
present  reminder  of  the  little  boy  of  long  ago, 
and  as  such  was  to  be  loved  and  trained  into  a 
semblance  of  what  that  boy  might  have  be 
come.  To  Perry  Larson,  David  was  the  "dernd- 
est  checkerboard  of  sense  an'  nonsense  goin"1 
-  a  game  over  which  to  chuckle. 
At  the  Holly  farmhouse  they  could  not  under- 
derstand  a  boy  who  would  leave  a  supper  for  a 

i63 


JUST  DAVID  I 

sunset,  or  who  preferred  a  book  to  a  toy  pistol 
—  as  Perry  Larson  found  out  was  the  case  on 
the  Fourth  of  July;  who  picked  flowers,  like  a 
girl,  for  the  table,  yet  who  unhesitatingly  struck 
ihe  first  blow  in  a  fight  with  six  antagonists; 
who  would  not  go  fishing  because  the  fishes 
would  not  like  it,  nor  hunting  for  any  sort  of 
wild  thing  that  had  life;  who  hung  entranced 
for  an  hour  over  the  "millions  oi  lovely  striped 
bugs"  in  a  field  of  early  potatoes,  and  who 
promptly  and  stubbornly  refused  to  sprinkle 
those  same  "lovely  bugs"  with  Paris  green 
when  discovered  at  his  worship.  All  this  was 
most  perplexing,  to  say  the  least. 

Yet  David  worked,  and  worked  well,  and  in 
most  cases  he  obeyed  orders  willingly.  He 
learned  much,  too,  that  was  interesting  and 
profitable;  nor  was  he  the  only  one  that  made 
strange  discoveries  during  those  July  days. 
The  Hollys  themselves  learned  much.  They 
learned  that  the  rose  of  sunset  and  the  gold  of 
sunrise  were  worth  looking  at;  and  that  the 
massing  of  the  thunderheads  in  the  west  meant 
more  than  just  a  shower.  They  learned,  too. 
that  the  green  of  the  hilltop  and  of  the  far- 
reaching  meadow  was  more  than  grass,  and 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

that  the  purple  haze  along  the  horizon  was 
more  than  the  mountains  that  lay  between 
them  and  the  next  State.  They  were  beginning 
to  see  the  world  with  David's  eyes. 

There  were,  too,  the  long  twilights  and  even 
ings  when  David,  on  the  wings  of  his  violin, 
would  speed  away  to  his  mountain  home,  leav 
ing  behind  him  a  man  and  a  woman  who  seemed 
to  themselves  to  be  listening  to  the  voice  of 
a  curly-headed,  rosy-cheeked  lad  who  once 
played  at  their  knees  and  nestled  in  their  arms 
when  the  day  was  done.  And  here,  too,  the 
Hollys  were  learning;  though  the  thing  thus 
learned  was  hidden  deep  in  their  hearts. 

It  was  not  long  after  David's  first  visit  that 
the  boy  went  again  to  "The  House  that  Jack 
Built,"  as  the  Gurnseys  called  their  tiny  home. 
(Though  in  reality  it  had  been  Jack's  father  who 
had  built  the  house.  Jack  and  Jill,  however, 
did  not  always  deal  with  realities.)  It  was  not 
a'  pleasant  afternoon.  There  was  a  light  mist 
in?the  air,  and  David  was  without  his  violin. 

"I  came  to  —  to  inquire  for  the  cat  —  Juli 
ette,"  he  began,  a  little  bashfully.  "I  thought 
I'd  rather  do  that  than  read  to-day,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Jill  in  the  doorway. 

i65 


JUST  DAVID 

"Good!  I'm  so  glad!  I  hoped  you'd  come," 
the  little  girl  welcomed  him.  "  Gome  in  and  — 
and  see  Juliette,"  she  added  hastily,  remem 
bering  at  the  last  moment  that  her  brother  had 
not  looked  with  entire  favor  on  her  avowed 
admiration  for  this  strange  little  boy. 

Juliette,  roused  from  her  nap,  was  at  first 
inclined  to  resent  her  visitor's  presence.  In 
five  minutes,  however,  she  was  purring  in  his 
lap. 

The  conquest  of  the  kitten  once  accom 
plished,  David  looked  about  him  a  little  rest 
lessly.  He  began  to  wonder  why  he  had  come. 
He  wished  he  had  gone  to  see  Joe  Glaspell  in 
stead.  He  wished  that  Jill  would  not  sit  and 
stare  at  him  like  that.  He  wished  that  she 
would  say  something  —  anything.  But  Jill, 
apparently  struck  dumb  with  embarrassment, 
was  nervously  twisting  the  corner  of  her  apron 
into  a  little  knot.  David  tried  to  recollect  what 
he  had  talked  about  a  few  days  before,  and  he 
wondered  why  he  had  so  enjoyed  himself  then. 
He  wished  that  something  would  happen  — 
anything!  —  and  then  from  an  inner  room 
came  the  sound  of  a  violin. 

David  raised  his  head. 
166 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

"It's  Jack,"  stammered  the  little  girl  —  who 
also  had  been  wishing  something  would  hap 
pen.  "He  plays,  same  as  you  do,  on  the  vio 
lin." 

"Does  he?"  beamed  David.  "But—"  He 
paused,  listening,  a  quick  frown  on  his  face. 

Over  and  over  the  violin  was  playing  a  single 
phrase  —  and  the  variations  in  the  phrase 
showed  the  indecision  of  the  fingers  and  of  the 
mind  that  controlled  them.  Again  and  again 
with  irritating  sameness,  yet  with  a  still  more 
irritating  difference,  came  the  succession  of 
notes.  And  then  David  sprang  to  his  feet, 
placing  Juliette  somewhat  unceremoniously  on 
the  floor,  much  to  that  petted  young  autocrat's 
disgust, 

"Here,  where  is  he?  Let  me  show  him," 
cried  the  boy;  and  at  the  note  of  command  in 
his  voice,  Jill  involuntarily  rose  and  opened  the 
door  to  Jack's  den. 

"Oh,  please,  Mr.  Jack,"  burst  out  David, 
hurrying  into  the  room.  "Don't  you  see?  You 
don't  go  at  that  thing  right.  If  you'll  just  let 
me  show  you  a  minute,  we'll  have  it  fixed  in 
no  time!" 

The  man  with  the  violin  stared,  and  lowered 
167 


JUST  DAVID 

his  bow.  A  slow  red  came  to  his  face.  The 
phrase  was  peculiarly  a  difficult  one,  and  beyond 
him,  as  he  knew;  but  that  did  not  make  the 
present  intrusion  into  his  privacy  any  the  more 
welcome. 

"Oh,  will  we,  indeed!"  he  retorted,  a  little 
sharply.  "Don't  trouble  yourself,  I  beg  of  you, 
boy." 

"But  it  is  n't  a  mite  of  trouble,  truly,"  urged 
David,  with  an  ardor  that  ignored  the  sarcasm 
in  the  other's  words.  "I  want  to  do  it." 

Despite  his  annoyance,  the  man  gave  a  short 
laugh. 

"Well,  David,  I  believe  you.  And  I'll  war 
rant  you'd  tackle  this  Brahms  concerto  as  non 
chalantly  as  you  did  those  six  hoodlums  with 
the  cat  the  other  day  —  and  expect  to  win  out, 
too!" 

"But,  truly,  this  is  easy,  when  you  know 
how,"  laughed  the  boy.  "See!" 

To  his  surprise,  the  man  found  himself  re 
linquishing  the  violin  and  bow  into  the  slim, 
eager  hands  that  reached  for  them.  The  next 
moment  he  fell  back  in  amazement.  Clear,  dis 
tinct,  yet  connected  like  a  string  of  rounded 
pearls  fell  the  troublesome  notes  from  David's 

168 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

bow.  "You  see,"  smiled  the  boy  again,  and 
played  the  phrase  a  second  time,  more  slowly, 
and  with  deliberate  emphasis  at  the  difficult 
part.  Then,  as  if  in  answer  to  some  irresistible 
summons  within  him,  he  dashed  into  the  next 
phrase  and,  with  marvelous  technique,  played 
quite  through  the  rippling  cadenza  that  com 
pleted  the  movement. 

"Well,  by  George!"  breathed  the  man  daz 
edly,  as  he  took  the  offered  violin.  The  next 
moment  he  had  demanded  vehemently:  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  who  are  you,  boy?" 

David's  face  wrinkled  in  grieved  surprise. 

"Why,  I  'm  David.  Don't  you  remember? 
I  was  here  just  the  other  day!" 

"Yes,  yes;  but  who  taught  you  to  play  like 
that?" 

"Father." 

"Father' !"  The  man  echoed  the  word  with 
a  gesture  of  comic  despair.  "First  Latin,  then 
jiujitsu,  and  now  the  violin!  Boy,  who  was 
your  father?" 

David  lifted  his  head  and  frowned  a  little. 
He  had  been  questioned  so  often,  and  so  un- 
sympathetically,  about  his  father  that  he  was 
beginning  to  resent  it. 

169 


JUST  DAVID 

"He  was  daddy  —  just  daddy;  and  I  loved 
him  dearly." 

"But  what  was  his  name?" 

"I  don't  know.  We  did  n't  seem  to  have  a 
name  like  —  like  yours  down  here.  Anyway, 
if  we  did,  I  did  n't  know  what  it  was." 

"But,  David,"  —  the  man  was  speaking 
very  gently  now.  He  had  motioned  the  boy  to  a 
low  seat  by  his  side.  The  little  girl  was  standing 
near,  her  eyes  alight  with  wondering  interest. 
"He  must  have  had  a  name,  you  know,  just 
the  same.  Did  n't  you  ever  hear  any  one  call 
him  anything?  Think,  now." 

"No."  David  said  the  single  word,  and 
turned  his  eyes  away.  It  had  occurred  to  him, 
since  he  had  come  to  live  in  the  valley,  that 
perhaps  his  father  did  not  want  to  have  his 
name  known.  He  remembered  that  once  the 
milk-and-eggs  boy  had  asked  what  to  call  him; 
and  his  father  had  laughed  and  answered:  "I 
don't  see  but  you'll  have  to  call  me  'The  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountain,'  as  they  do  down  in  the 
village."  That  was  the  only  time  David  could 
recollect  hearing  his  father  say  anything  about 
his  name.  At  the  time  David  had  not  thought 
much  about  it.  But  since  then,  down  here 

170 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

where  they  appeared  to  think  a  name  was  so 
important,  he  had  wondered  if  possibly  his 
father  had  not  preferred  to  keep  his  to  himself. 
If  such  were  the  case,  he  was  glad  now  that  he 
did  not  know  this  name,  so  that  he  might  not 
have  to  tell  all  these  inquisitive  people  who 
asked  so  many  questions  about  it.  He  was 
glad,  too,  that  those  men  had  not  been  able  to 
read  his  father's  name  at  the  end  of  his  other 
note  that  first  morning  —  if  his  father  really 
did  not  wish  his  name  to  be  known. 

"But,  David,  think.  Where  you  lived, 
was  n't  there  ever  anybody  who  called  him  by 
name?" 

David  shook  his  head. 

"I  told  you.  We  were  all  alone,  father  and 
I,  in  the  little  house  far  up  on  the  mountain." 

"And  —  your  mother?" 

Again  David  shook  his  head. 

"She  is  an  angel-mother,  and  angel-mothers 
don't  live  in  houses,  you  know." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  gently 
the  man  asked :  — 

"And  you  always  lived  there?" 

"Six  years,  father  said." 

"And  before  that?" 


JUST  DAVID 

"I  don't  remember."  There  was  a  touch  of 
injured  reserve  in  the  boy's  voice  which  the 
man  was  quick  to  perceive.  He  took  the  hint 
at  once. 

"He  must  have  been  a  wonderful  man- 
your  father!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  boy  turned,  his  eyes  luminous  with 
feeling. 

"He  was  —  he  was  perfect!  But  they  — 
down  here  —  don't  seem  to  know  —  or  care," 
he  choked. 

"Oh,  but  that's  because  they  don't  under 
stand,"  soothed  the  man.  "Now,  tell  me  — 
you  must  have  practiced  a  lot  to  play  like 
that." 

"I  did  — but  I  liked  it." 

"And  what  else  did  you  do?  and  how  did  you 
happen  to  come  —  down  here?" 

Once  again  David  told  his  story,  more  fully, 
perhaps,  this  time  than  ever  before,  because  of 
the  sympathetic  ears  that  were  listening, 
i  "But  now,"  he  finished  wistfully,  "it's  all 
so  different,  and  I  'm  down  here  alone.  Daddy 
went,  you  know,  to  the  far  country;  and  he 
can't  come  back  from  there." 

"Who  told  you  — that?" 
172 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

"Daddy  himself.  He  wrote  it  to  me." 

"Wrote  it  to  you!"  cried  the  man,  sitting 
suddenly  erect. 

"Yes.  It  was  hi  his  pocket,  you  see.  They 
• —  found  it."  David's  voice  was  very  low,  and 
not  quite  steady. 

"David,  may  I  see  —  that  letter?" 

The  boy  hesitated;  then  slowly  he  drew  it 
from  his  pocket. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Jack.  I'll  let  you  see  it." 

Reverently,  tenderly,  but  very  eagerly  the 
man  took  the  note  and  read  it  through,  hoping 
somewhere  to  find  a  name  that  would  help 
solve  the  mystery.  With  a  sigh  he  handed  it 
back.  His  eyes  were  wet. 

"Thank  you,  David.  That  is  a  beautiful 
letter,"  he  said  softly.  "And  I  believe  you'll 
do  it  some  day,  too.  You'll  go  to  him  with 
your  violin  at  your  chin  and  the  bow  drawn 
across  the  strings  to  tell  him  of  the  beautiful 
world  you  have  found." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David  simply.  Then,  with 
a  suddenly  radiant  smile :  "And  now  I  can't  help 
finding  it  a  beautiful  world,  you  know,  'cause 
I  don't  count  the  hours  I  don't  like." 

"You  don't  what?  —  oh,  I  remember,"  re- 
i73 


JUST  DAVID 

turned  Mr.  Jack,  a  quick  change  coming  to  his 
face. 

"Yes,  the  sundial,  you  know,  where  my  Lady 
of  the  Roses  lives." 

"Jack,  what  is  a  sundial?"  broke  in  Jill 
eagerly. 

Jack  turned,  as  if  in  relief. 

"Hullo,  girlie,  you  there?  —  and  so  still  all 
this  time?  Ask  David.  He'll  tell  you  what 
a  sundial  is.  Suppose,  anyhow,  that  you  two 
go  out  on  the  piazza  now.  I've  got  —  er  — 
some  work  to  do.  And  the  sun  itself  is  out; 
see?  —  through  the  trees  there.  It  came  out 
just  to  say  'good-night,'  I'm  sure.  Run  along, 
quick!"  And  he  playfully  drove  them  from  the 
room. 

Alone,  he  turned  and  sat  down  at  his  desk. 
His  work  was  before  him,  but  he  did  not  do  it. 
His  eyes  were  out  of  the  window  on  the  golden 
tops  of  the  towers  of  Sunnycrest.  Motionless, 
he  watched  them  until  they  turned  gray-white 
in  the  twilight.  Then  he  picked  up  his  pencil 
and  began  to  write  feverishly.  He  went  to  the 
window,  however,  as  David  stepped  off  the 
veranda,  and  called  merrily :  — 

"Remember,  boy,  that  when  there's  another 
174 


• 

ty-  Ji:; 

'  t* '- 

-^ 


"HE  MUST  HAVE  HAD  A  NAME" 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

note  that  baffles  me,  I'm  going  to  send  for 
you." 

"He's  coming  anyhow.  I  asked  him,"  an 
nounced  Jill. 

And  David  laughed  back  a  happy  "  Of  course 


A  SURPRISE  FOR  MR.  JACK 

note  that  baffles  me,  I'm  going  to  send  for 
you." 

"He's  coming  anyhow.  I  asked  him,"  an 
nounced  Jill. 

And  David  laughed  back  a  happy  "  Of  course 
*  am!" 


JUST  DAVID 

as  David  himself  had  so  often  wished  that  he 
could  float.  On  all  sides  silken  hangings,  like 
the  green  of  swaying  vines,  half-hid  other 
hangings  of  feathery,  snowflake  lace.  Every 
where  mirrored  walls  caught  the  light  and  re 
flected  the  potted  ferns  and  palms  so  that 
David  looked  down  endless  vistas  of  loveliness 
that  seemed  for  all  the  world  like  the  long  sun- 
flecked  aisles  beneath  the  tall  pines  of  his 
mountain  home. 

The  music  that  David  had  heard  at  first  had 
long  since  stopped;  but  David  had  not  noticed 
that.  He  stood  now  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
awed,  and  trembling,  but  enraptured.  Then 
from  somewhere  came  a  voice  —  a  voice  so 
cold  that  it  sounded  as  if  it  had  swept  across  a 
field  of  ice. 

"Well,  boy,  when  you  have  quite  finished 
your  inspection,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  to 
what  I  am  indebted  for  this  visit,"  it  said. 

David  turned  abruptly. 

"0  Lady  of  the  Roses,  why  did  n't  you  teli 
me  it  was  like  this  —  in  here?"  he  breathed. 

"Well,  really,"  murmured  the  lady  in  the 
doorway,  stiffly,  "it  had  not  occurred  to  me 
that  that  was  hardly  —  necessary." 

178 


THE  TOWER  WINDOW 

"But  it  was!  —  don't  you  see?  This  is  new, 
all  new.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it  before; 
and  I  do  so  love  new  things.  It  gives  me  some 
thing  new  to  play;  don't  you  understand?" 

"New  — to  play?" 

"Yes  —  on  my  violin,"  explained  David,  a 
little  breathlessly,  softly  testing  his  violin. 
"There's  always  something  new  in  this,  you 
know,"  he  hurried  on,  as  he  tightened  one  of 
the  strings,  "when  there's  any  thing  new  outside. 
Now,  listen!  You  see  I  don't  know  myself  just 
how  it's  going  to  sound,  and  I'm  always  so 
anxious  to  find  out."  And  with  a  joyously  rapt 
face  he  began  to  play. 

"But,  see  here,  boy,  —  you  mustn't!  You 
The  words  died  on  her  lips;  and,  to  her 
unbounded  amazement,  Miss  Barbara  Hoi- 
brook,  who  had  intended  peremptorily  to  send 
this  persistent  little  tramp  boy  about  his  busi 
ness,  found  herself  listening  to  a  melody  so 
compelling  in  its  sonorous  beauty  th?t  she  was 
left  almost  speechless  at  its  close.  It  was  the 
boy  who  spoke. 

"There,  I  told  you  my  violin  would  know 
what  to  say!" 

"'What  to  say'!  —  well,  that's  more  than  1 
.  170 


JUST  DAVID 

do,***  laughed  Miss  Holbrook,  a  little  hysteri 
cally.  "Boy,  come  here  and  tell  me  who  you 
are."  And  she  led  the  way  to  a  low  divan  that 
stood  near  a  harp  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

It  was  the  same  story,  told  as  David  had 
told  it  to  Jack  and  Jill  a  few  days  before,  only 
this  time  David's  eyes  were  roving  admiringly 
all  about  the  room,  resting  oftenest  on  the  harp 
so  near  him. 

"Did  that  make  the  music  that  I  heard?" 
he  asked  eagerly,  as  soon  as  Miss  Holbrook's 
questions  gave  him  opportunity.  "It's  got 
strings." 

"Yes.  I  was  playing  when  you  came  in.  I 
saw  you  enter  the  window.  Really,  David,  are 
you  in  the  habit  of  walking  into  people's  houses 
like  this?  It  is  most  disconcerting  —  to  their 
owners." 

"Yes — no — well,  sometimes."  David's  eyes 
were  still  on  the  harp.  "  Lady  of  the  Roses,  won't 
you  please  play  again  —  on  that?" 

"David,  you  are  incorrigible!  Why  did  you 
come  into  my  house  like  this?" 

"The  music  said  'come';  and  the  towers,  too. 
You  see,  I  know  the  towers." 

"You  know  them!" 

180 


THE  TOWER  WINDOW 

"Yes.  I  can  see  them  from  so  many  places, 
and  I  always  watch  for  them.  They  show  best 
of  anywhere,  though,  from  Jack  and  Jill'So 
And  now  won't  you  play?" 

Miss  Holbrook  had  almost  risen  to  her  feet 
when  she  turned  abruptly. 

"From  —  where?"  she  asked. 

"From  Jack  and  Jill's  —  the  House  that 
Jack  Built,  you  know." 

"You  mean  —  Mr.  John  Gurnsey's  house?" 
A  deeper  color  had  come  into  Miss  Holbrook's 
cheeks. 

"Yes.  Over  there  at  the  top  of  the  little  hill 
across  the  brook,  you  know.  You  can't  see 
their  house  from  here,  but  from  over  there  we 
can  see  the  towers  finely,  and  the  little  window 
Oh,  Lady  of  the  Roses,"  he  broke  off  ex 
citedly,  at  the  new  thought  that  had  come  to 
him,  "if  we,  now,  were  in  that  little  window, 
we  could  see  their  house.  Let's  go  up.  Can't 
we?" 

Explicit  as  this  was,  Miss  Holbrook  evidently 
did  not  hear,  or  at  least  did  not  understand, 
this  request.  She  settled  back  on  the  divan, 
indeed,  almost  determinedly.  Her  cheeks  were 
red  now. 

181 


JUST  DAVID 

"And  do  you  know  —  this  Mr.  Jack?"  she 
asked  lightly. 

"Yes,  and  Jill,  too.  Don't  you?  I  like  them, 
too.  Do  you  know  them?  " 

Again  Miss  Holbrook  ignored  the  question 
put  to  her. 

"And  did  you  walk  into  their  house,  unan 
nounced  and  uninvited,  like  this?"  she  queried. 

"No.  He  asked  me.  You  see  he  wanted  to 
get  off  some  of  the  dirt  and  blood  before  other 
folks  saw  me." 

"The  dirt  and  —  and  —  why,  David,  what 
do  you  mean?  What  was  it  —  an  accident?" 

David  frowned  and  reflected  a  moment. 

"No.  I  did  it  on  purpose.  I  had  to,  you  see," 
he  finally  elucidated.  "But  there  were  six  of 
them,  and  I  got  the  worst  of  it." 

"David!"  Miss  Holbrook's  voice  was  horri 
fied.  "You  don't  mean  —  a  fight!" 

"Yes'm.  I  wanted  the  cat  —  and  I  got  it, 
but  I  would  n't  have  if  Mr.  Jack  had  n't  come 
to  help  me." 

"Oh!  So  Mr.  Jack  —  fought,  too?" 

"Well,  he  pulled  the  others  off,  and  of  course 
that  helped  me,"  explained  David  truthfully. 
"And  then  he  took  me  home  —  he  and  Jill." 

182 


THE  TOWER  WINDOW 

"Jill!  Was  she  in  it?" 

"No,  only  her  cat.  They  had  tied  a  bag  over 
its  head  and  a  tin  can  to  its  tail,  and  of  course  I 
could  n't  let  them  do  that.  They  were  hurting 
ner.  And  now,  Lady  of  the  Roses,  won't  you 
please  play?" 

For  a  moment  Miss  Holbrook  did  not  speak. 
She  was  gazing  at  David  with  an  odd  look  in 
her  eyes.  At  last  she  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"David,  you  are  the  —  the  limit!1'  she 
breathed,  as  she  rose  and  seated  herself  at  the 
harp. 

David  was  manifestly  delighted  with  her 
playing,  and  begged  for  more  when  she  had 
finished;  but  Miss  Holbrook  shook  her  head. 
She  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  restless, 
and  she  moved  about  the  room  calling  David's 
attention  to  something  new  each  moment. 
Then,  very  abruptly,  she  suggested  that  they 
go  upstairs.  From  Toom  to  room  she  hurried 
the  boy,  scarcely  listening  to  his  ardent  com 
ments,  or  answering  his  still  more  ardent 
questions.  Not  until  they  reached  the  highest 
tower  room,  indeed,  did  she  sink  wearily  into 
a  chair,  and  seem  for  a  moment  at  rest. 

David  looked  about  him  in  surprise.  Even 
i83 


JUST  DAVID 

his  untrained  eye  could  see  that  he  had  entered 
a  different  world.  There  were  no  sumptuous 
rugs,  no  silken  hangings;  no  mirrors,  no  snow- 
flake  curtains.  There  were  books,  to  be  sure,, 
but  besides  those  there  were  only  a  plain  low 
table,  a  work-basket,  and  three  or  four  wooden- 
seated  though  comfortable  chairs.  With  in 
creasing  wonder  he  looked  into  Miss  Hoi- 
brook's  eyes. 

"Is  it  here  that  you  stay  —  all  day?"  he 
asked  diffidently. 

Miss  Holbrook's  face  turned  a  vivid  scarlet. 

"Why,  David,  what  a  question!  Of  course 
not!  Why  should  you  think  I  did?" 

"Nothing;  only  I've  been  wondering  all  the 
time  I  Ve  been  here  how  you  could  —  with  all 
those  beautiful  things  around  you  downstairs 
—  say  what  you  did." 

"  Say  what?  —  when?  " 

"That  other  day  in  the  garden  —  about  all 
your  hours  being  cloudy  ones.  So  I  did  n't 
know  to-day  but  what  you  lived  up  here,  same 
as  Mrs.  Holly  does  n't  use  her  best  rooms;  and 
that  was  why  your  hours  were  all  cloudy  ones." 

With  a  sudden  movement  Miss  Holbrook 
rose  to  her  feet. 

i84 


THE  TOWER  WINDOW 

"Nonsense,  David!  You  shouldn't  always 
remember  everything  that  people  say  to  you. 
Come,  you  have  n't  seen  one  of  the  views  from 
the  windows  yet.  We  are  in  the  larger  tower, 
you  know.  You  can  see  Hinsdale  village  on 
this  side,  and  there 's  a  fine  view  of  the  moun 
tains  over  there.  Oh  yes,  and  from  the  other 
side  there's  your  friend's  house — Mr.  Jack's. 
By  the  way,  how.  is  Mr.  Jack  these  days?" 
Miss  Holbrook  stooped  as  she  asked  the  ques 
tion  and  picked  up  a  bit  of  thread  from  the  rug. 

David  ran  at  once  to  the  window  that  looked 
toward  the  House  that  Jack  Built.  From  the 
tower  the  little  house  appeared  to  be  smaller 
than  ever.  It  was  in  the  shadow,  too,  and 
looked  strangely  alone  and  forlorn.  Uncon 
sciously,  as  he  gazed  at  it,  David  compared  it 
with  the  magnificence  he  had  just  seen.  His 
voice  choked  as  he  answered. 

"He  is  n't  well,  Lady  of  the  Roses,  and  he's 
unhappy.  He's  awfully  unhappy." 

Miss  Holbrook's  slender  figure  came  up  with 
a  jerk. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?  How  do  you 
know  he's  unhappy?  Has  he  said  so?" 

"No;  but  Mrs.  Holly  told  me  about  him. 
186 


JUST  DAVID 

He's  sick;  and  he'd  just  found  his  work  to  do 
out  hi  the  world  when  he  had  to  stop  and  come 
home.  But  —  oh,  quick,  there  he  is!  See?" 

Instead  of  coming  nearer  Miss  Holbrook  fell 
back  to  the  center  of  the  room;  but  her  eyes 
were  still  turned  toward  the  little  house. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  she  murmured.  The  next  in 
stant  she  had  snatched  a  handkerchief  from 
David's  outstretched  hand.  "No  —  no  —  I 
would  n't  wave,"  she  remonstrated  hurriedly. 
"  Come  —  come  downstairs  with  me." 

"But  I  thought  —  I  was  sure  he  was  looking 
this  way,"  asserted  David,  turning  reluctantly 
from  the  window.  "And  if  he  had  seen  me  wave 
to  him,  he'd  have  been  so  glad;  now,  would  n't 
he?" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  Lady  of  the  Roses 
did  not  apparently  hear.  She  had  gone  on  down 
*lie  stairway. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SECRETS 

DAVID  had  so  much  to  tell  Jack  and  Jill  that 
he  went  to  see  them  the  very  next  day  after 
his  second  visit  to  Sunnycrest.  He  carried  his 
violin  with  him.  He  found,  however,  only  Jill  at 
home.  She  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  steps. 

There  was  not  so  much  embarrassment  be 
tween  them  this  tune,  perhaps  because  they 
were  in  the  freedom  of  the  wide  out-of-doors, 
and  David  felt  more  at  ease.  He  was  plainly 
disappointed,  however,  that  Mr.  Jack  was  not 
there. 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  him!  I  wanted  to  see 
him  'specially,"  he  lamented. 

"You'd  better  stay,  then.  He'll  be  home  by 
and  by,"  comforted  Jill.  "He's  gone  pot- 
boiHng." 

"Pot-boiling!  What's  that?" 

Jill  chuckled. 

"Well,  you  see,  really  it's  this  way:  he  sells 
something  to  boil  in  other  people's  pots  so  he 

187 


JUST  DAVID 

can  have  something  to  boil  in  ours,  he  says. 
It's  stuff  from  the  garden,  you  know.  We  raise 
it  to  sell.  Poor  Jack  —  and  he  does  hate  it  so !" 

David  nodded  sympathetically. 

"  I  know  —  and  it  must  be  awful,  just  hoe- 
Ing  and  weeding  all  the  time." 

"Still,  of  course  he  knows  he's  got  to  do  it, 
because  it's  out  of  doors,  and  he  just  has  to  be 
out  of  doors  all  he  can,'*  rejoined  the  girl. 
"He's  sick,  you  know,  and  sometimes  he's  so 
unhappy!  He  does  n't  say  much.  Jack  never 
says  much  —  only  with  his  face.  But  I  know, 
and  it  —  it  just  makes  me  want  to  cry." 

At  David's  dismayed  exclamation  Jill  jumped 
to  her  feet.  It  occurred  to  her  suddenly 
that  she  was  telling  this  unknown  boy  alto 
gether  too  many  of  the  family  secrets.  She 
proposed  at  once  a  race  to  the  foot  of  the  hill; 
and  then,  to  drive  David's  mind  still  farther 
away  from  the  subject  under  recent  considera 
tion,  she  deliberately  lost,  and  proclaimed  him 
the  victor. 

Very  soon,  however,  there  arose  new  compli 
cations  in  the  shape  of  a  little  gate  that  led  to 
a  path  which,  in  its  turn,  led  to  a  footbridge 
across  the  narrow  span  of  the  little  stream. 

188 


SECRETS 

Above  the  trees  on  the  other  side  peeped  the 
top  of  Sunnycrest's  highest  tower. 

"To  the  Lady  of  the  Roses!"  cried  David 
eagerly.  "I  know  it  goes  there.  Come,  let's 
see!" 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Jack  won't.let  me." 

"But  it  goes  to  a  beautiful  place;  I  was  there 
yesterday,"  argued  David.  "And  I  was  up  in 
the  tower  and  almost  waved  to  Mr.  Jack  on 
the  piazza  back  there.  I  saw  him.  And  maybe 
she'd  let  you  and  me  go  up  there  again  to-day." 

"But  I  can't,  I  say,"  repeated  Jill,  a  little 
impatiently.  "Jack  won't  let  me  even  start." 

"Why  not?  Maybe  he  doesn't  know  where 
it  goes  to." 

Jill  hung  her  head.  Then  she  raised  it  de 
fiantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does,  'cause  I  told  him.  I  used 
to  go  when  I  was  littler  and  he  was  n't  here. 
I  went  once,  after  he  came,  —  halfway,  —  and 
he  saw  me  and  called  to  me.  I  had  got  halfway 
across  the  bridge,  but  I  had  to  come  back.  He 
was  very  angry,  yet  sort  of  —  queer,  too.  His 


JUST  DAVID 

face  was  all  stern  and  white,  and  his  lips 
snapped  tight  shut  after  every  word.  He  said 
never,  never,  never  to  let  him  find  me  the  other 
side  of  that  gate." 

David  frowned  as  they  turned  to  go  up  the 
hill.  Unhesitatingly  he  determined  to  instruct 
Mr.  Jack  in  this  little  matter.  He  would  tell 
him  what  a  beautiful  place  Sunnycrest  was, 
and  he  would  try  to  convince  him  how  very 
desirable  it  was  that  he  and  Jill,  and  even  Mr. 
Jack  himself,  should  go  across  the  bridge  at  the 
very  first  opportunity  that  offered. 

Mr.  Jack  came  home  before  long,  but  David 
quite  forgot  to  speak  of  the  footbridge  just 
then,  chiefly  because  Mr.  Jack  got  out  his 
violin  and  asked  David  to  come  in  and  play 
a  duet  with  him.  The  duet,  however,  soon 
became  a  solo,  for  so  great  was  Mr.  Jack's 
delight  in  David's  playing  that  he  placed  be 
fore  the  boy  one  sheet  of  music  after  another, 
begging  and  still  begging  for  more. 
"«  David,  nothing  loath,  played  on  and  on. 
Most  of  the  music  he  knew,  having  already 
learned  it  in  his  mountain  home.  Like  old 
friends  the  melodies  seemed,  and  so  glad  was 
David  to  see  their  notes  again  that  he  finished 

190 


SECRETS 

each  production  with  a  little  improvised  cadenza 
of  ecstatic  welcome  —  to  Mr.  Jack's  increasing 
surprise  and  delight. 

"Great  Scott!  you're  a  wonder,  David,"  he 
exclaimed,  at  last. 

"Pooh!  as  if  that  was  anything  wonderful," 
laughed  the  boy.  "Why,  I  knew  those  ages 
ago,  Mr.  Jack.  It's  only  that  I'm  so  glad  to 
see  them  again  —  the  notes,  you  know.  You 
see,  I  have  n't  any  music  now.  It  was  all  in  the 
bag  (what  we  brought),  and  we  left  that  on  the 
way." 

"You  left  it!" 

"Yes,  'twas  so  heavy,"  murmured  David 
abstractedly,  his  fingers  busy  with  the  pile  of 
music  before  him.  "Oh,  and  here's  another 
one,"  he  cried  exultingly.  "This  is  where  the 
wind  sighs  '  oou  —  oou  —  oou'  through  the 
pines.  Listen!"  And  he  was  away  again  on  the 
wings  of  his  violin.  When  he  had  returned  Mr. 
Jack  drew  a  long  breath. 

"David,  you  are  a  wonder,"  he  declared 
again.  "And  that  violin  of  yours  is  a  wonder, 
too,  if  I  'm  not  mistaken,  —  though  I  don't 
know  enough  to  tell  whether  it's  really  a  rare 
one  or  not.  Was  it  your  father's?" 


JUST  DAVID 

"Oh,  no.  He  had  one,  too,  and  they  both 
are  good  ones.  Father  said  so.  Joe's  got 
father's  now." 

"Joe?" 

"Joe  Glaspell." 

"You  don't  mean  Widow  GlaspelPs  Joe,  the 
blind  boy?  I  did  n't  know  he  could  play." 

"He  could  n't  till  I  showed  him.    But  he 
likes  to  hear  me  play.   And  he  understood  - 
right  away,  I  mean." 

"Understood!" 

"What  I  was  playing,  you  know.  And  he 
was  almost  the  first  one  that  did  —  since  father 
went  away.  And  now  I  play  every  time  I  go 
there.  Joe  says  he  never  knew  before  how  trees 
and  grass  and  sunsets  and  sunrises  and  birds 
and  little  brooks  did  look,  till  I  told  him  with 
my  violin.  Now  he  says  he  thinks  he  can  see 
them  better  than  I  can,  because  as  long  as  his 
outside  eyes  can't  see  anything,  they  can't  see 
those  ugly  things  all  around  him,  and  so  he 
can  just  make  his  inside  eyes  see  only  the  beau 
tiful  things  that  he'd  like  to  see.  And  that's 
the  kind  he  does  see  when  I  play.  That 's  why 
I  said  he  understood." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.    In  Mr. 
192 


SECRETS 

Jack's  eyes  there  was  an  odd  look  as  they  rested 
on  David's  face.  Then,  abruptly,  he  spoke. 

"David,  I  wish  I  had  money.  I'd  put  you 
then  where  you  belonged,"  he  sighed. 

"Do  you  mean  —  where  I'd  find  my  work 
to  do?"  asked  the  boy  softly. 

"Well  —  yes;  you  might  say  it  that  way," 
smiled  the  man,  after  a  moment's  hesitation  - 
not  yet  was  Mr.  Jack  quite  used  to  this  boy 
who  was  at  tunes  so  very  un-boylike. 

"Father  told  me  'twas  waiting  for  me  — 
somewhere." 

Mr.  Jack  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"And  he  was  right,  David.  The  only  trouble 
is,  we  like  to  pick  it  out  for  ourselves,  pretty 
well,  —  too  well,  as  we  find  out  sometimes, 
when  we're  called  off  —  for  another  job." 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Jack,  I  know,"  breathed  David. 
And  the  man,  looking  into  the  glowing  dark 
eyes,  wondered  at  what  he  found  there.  It  was 
almost  as  if  the  boy  really  understood  about 
his  own  life's  disappointment  —  and  cared ; 
though  that,  of  course,  could  not  be ! 

"And  it's  all  the  harder  to  keep  ourselves  in 
tune  then,  too,  is  n't  it?"  went  on  David,  a  little 
wistfully. 

198 


JUST  DAVID 

"In  tune?" 

"With  the  rest  of  the  Orchestra/' 

J0h!"  And  Mr.  Jack,  who  had  already  heard 
about  the  "Orchestra  of  Life,"  smiled  a  bit 
sadly.  "That's  just  it,  my  boy.  And  if  we're 
handed  another  instrument  to  play  on  than  the 
one  we  want  to  play  on,  we  're  apt  to  —  to  let 
fly  a  discord.  Anyhow,  I  am.  But"  —he  went 
on  more  lightly-  "now,  in  your  case,  David, 
little  as  I  know  about  the  violin,  I  know  enough 
to  understand  that  you  ought  to  be  where  you 
can  take  up  your  study  of  it  again;  where  you 
can  hear  good  music,  and  where  you  can  be 
among  those  who  know  enough  to  appreciate 
what  you  do." 

David's  eyes  sparkled. 

"And  where  there  would  n't  be  any  pulling 
weeds  or  hoeing  dirt?" 

"Well,  I  had  n't  thought  of  including  either 
of  those  pastimes." 

"My,  but  I  would  like  that,  Mr.  Jack!  —  but 
that  would  n't  be  work,  so  that  could  n't  be 
what  father  meant."  David's  face  fell. 

"Hm-m;  well,  I  would  n't  worry  about  the 
'work'  part,"  laughed  Mr.  Jack,  "particularly 
as  you  are  n't  going  to  do  it  just  now.  There's 


SECRETS 

the  money,  you  know,  —  and  we  have  n't  got 
that." 

"And  it  takes  money?" 

"Well  —  yes.  You  can't  get  thore  things 
here  in  Hinsdale,  you  know;  and  it  takes  money 
to  get  away,  and  to  live  away  after  you  get 
there." 

A  sudden  light  transfigured  David's  face. 

"Mr.  Jack,  would  gold  do  it?— lots  of  little 
round  gold-pieces?" 

"I  think  it  would,  David,  if  there  were 
enough  of  them." 

"Many  as  a  hundred?" 

"  Sure  —  if  they  were  big  enough.  Anyway, 
David,  they'd  start  you,  and  I'm  thinking  you 
wouldn't  need  but  a  start  before  you'd  be 
coining  gold-pieces  of  your  own  out  of  that 
violin  of  yours.  But  why?  Anybody  you  know 
got  as  'many  as  a  hundred'  gold-pieces  he 
wants  to  get  rid  of?" 

For  a  moment  David,  his  delighted  thoughts 
flying  to  the  gold-pieces  in  the  chimney  cup 
board  of  his  room,  was  tempted  to  tell  his 
secret.  Then  he  remembered  the  woman  with 
the  bread  and  the  pail  of  milk,  and  decided  not 
to.  He  would  wait.  When  he  knew  Mr.  Jack 

ig5 


JUST  DAVID 

better  —  perhaps  then  he  would  tell;  but  not 
now.  Now  Mr.  Jack  might  think  he  was  a  thief, 
and  that  he  could  not  bear.  So  he  took  up  his 
violin  and  began  to  play;  and  in  the  charm  of 
the  music  Mr.  Jack  seemed  to  forget  the  gold- 
pieces —  which  was  exactly  what  David  had 
intended  should  happen. 

Not  until  David  had  said  good-bye  som^ 
time  later,  did  he  remember  the  purpose  —  the 
special  purpose  —  for  which  he  had  come.  He 
turned  back  with  a  radiant  face. 

"Oh,  and  Mr.  Jack,  I  'most  forgot,"  he  cried. 
"  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  I  saw  you  yesterday 
—  I  did,  and  I  almost  waved  to  you." 

"Did  you?  Where  were  you?" 

"Over  there  in  the  window  —  the  tower 
window,"  he  crowed  jubilantly. 

"  Oh,  you  went  again,  then,  I  suppose,  to  see 
Miss  Holbrook." 

The  man's  voice  sounded  so  oddly  cold  and 
distant  that  David  noticed  it  at  once.  He 
was  reminded  suddenly  of  the  gate  and  the 
footbridge  which  Jill  was  forbidden  to  cross; 
but  he  dared  not  speak  of  it  then  —  not 
when  Mr.  Jack  looked  like  that.  He  did  say, 
however:  — 

196 


SECRETS 

"Oh,  but,  Mr.  Jack,  it's  such  a  beautiful 
place!  You  don't  know  what  a  beautiful  place 
it  is." 

"Is  it?  Then,  you  like  it  so  much?" 

"Oh,  so  much!  But  —  didn't  you  ever  — 
see  it?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  I  did,  David,  long  ago," 
murmured  Mr.  Jack  with  what  seemed  to 
David  amazing  indifference. 

"And  did  you  see  her  —  my  Lady  of  the 
Roses?" 

"Why,  y  —  yes  —  I  believe  so." 

"And  is  that  all  you  remember  about  it?"  re 
sented  David,  highly  offended. 

The  man  gave  a  laugh  —  a  little  short,  hard 
laugh  that  David  did  not  like. 

" But,  let  me  see;  you  said  you  almost  waved, 
did  n't  you?  Why  did  n't  you,  quite?"  asked 
the  man. 

David  drew  himself  suddenly  erect.  Instinct 
ively  he  felt  that  his  Lady  of  the  Roses  needed 
defense. 

"Because  she  did  n't  want  me  to;  so  I  did  n't, 
of  course,"  he  rejoined  with  dignity.  "  She  took 
away  my  handkerchief." 

"I'll  warrant  she  did,"  muttered  the  man, 


JUST  DAVID 

behind  his  teeth.  Aloud  he  only  laughed  again, 
as  he  turned  away. 

David  went  on  down  the  steps,  dissatisfied 
vaguely  with  himself,  with  Mr.  Jack,  and  even 
with  the  Lady  of  the  Roses. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DAVID'S  CASTLE   IN   SPAIN 

ON  his  return  from  the  House  that  Jack  Built, 
David  decided  to  count  his  gold-pieces.  He  got 
them  out  at  once  from  behind  the  books,  and 
stacked  them  up  in  little  shining  rows.  As  he 
had  surmised,  there  were  a  hundred  of  them. 
There  were,  indeed,  a  hundred  and  six.  Tie  was 
pleased  at  that.  One  hundred  and  six  were 
surely  enough  to  give  him  a  "start." 

A  start!  David  closed  his  eyes  and  pictured 
it.  To  go  on  wiJh  his  violin,  to  hear  good  music, 
to  be  with  people  who  understood  what  he  said 
when  he  played !  That  was  what  Mr.  Jack  had 
said  a  "start"  was.  And  this  gold  —  these 
round  shining  bits  of  gold  —  could  bring  him 
this!  David  swept  the  little  piles  into  a  jingling 
heap,  and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  both  fists  full 
of  his  suddenly  beloved  wealth.  With  boyish 
glee  he  capered  about  the  room,  jingling  the 
coins  in  his  hands.  Then,  very  soberly,  he  sat 
down  again,  and  began  to  gather  the  gold  to 
put  away. 


JUST  DAVID 

He  would  be  wise  —  he  would  be  sensible. 
He  would  watch  his  chance,  and  when  it  came 
he  would  go  away.  First,  however,  he  would 
tell  Mr.  Jack  and  Joe,  and  the  Lady  of  the 
Roses;  yes,  and  the  Hollys,  too.  Just  now  there 
seemed  to  be  work,  real  work  that  he  could  do 
to  help  Mr.  Holly.  But  later,  possibly  when 
September  came  and  school,  —  they  had  said 
he  must  go  to  school,  —  he  would  tell  them 
then,  and  go  away  instead.  He  would  see.  By 
that  tune  they  would  believe  him,  perhaps, 
when  he  showed  the  gold-pieces.  They  would 
not  think  he  had  —  stolen  them.  It  was  August 
now;  he  would  wait.  But  meanwhile  he  could 
think  —  he  could  always  be  chinking  of  the 
wonderful  thing  that  this  gold  was  one  day  to 
bring  *o  him. 

Even  ,vork,  to  David,  did  not  seem  work 
now.  In  the  morning  he  was  to  rake  hay  behind 
the  men  with  the  cart.  Yesterday  he  had  not 
liked  it  very  well;  but  now  —  nothing  mattered 
now.  And  with  a  satisfied  sigh  David  put  his 
'precious  gold  away  again  behind  the  books  in 
the  cupboard. 

David  found  a  new  song  in  his  violin  the  next 
morning.  To  be  sure,  he  could  not  play  it  — 

200 


DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

much  of  it  —  until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
came;  for  Mr.  Holly  did  not  like  violins  to  be 
played  in  the  morning,  even  on  days  that  were 
not  especially  the  Lord's.  There  was  too  much 
work  to  do.  So  David  could  only  snatch  a 
strain  or  two  very,  very  softly,  while  he  was 
dressing;  but  that  was  enough  to  show  him 
what  a  beautiful  song  it  was  going  to  be.  He 
knew  what  it  was,  at  once,  too.  It  was  the  gold- 
pieces,  and  what  they  would  bring.  All  through 
the  day  it  tripped  through  his  consciousness, 
and  danced  tantalizingly  just  out  of  reach.  Yet 
he  was  wonderfully  happy,  and  the  day  seemed 
short  in  spite  of  the  heat  and  the  weariness. 

At  four  o'clock  he  hurried  home  and  put  his 
violin  quickly  in  tune.  It  came  then  —  that 
dancing  sprite  of  tantalization  —  and  joyously 
abandoned  itself  to  the  strings  of  the  violin,  so 
that  David  knew,  of  a  surety,  what  a  beautiful 
song  it  was. 

It  was  this  song  that  sent  him  the  next  after 
noon  to  see  his  Lady  of  the  Roses.  He  found 
her  this  time  out  of  doors  in  her  garden.  Un 
ceremoniously,  as  usual,  he  rushed  headlong 
into  her  presence. 

"  Oh,  Lady  —  Lady  of  the  Roses,"  he  panted. 
201 


JUST  DAVID 

"I've  found  out,  and  I  came  quickly  to  tell 
you." 

"Why,  David,  what  —  what  do  you  mean?" 
Miss  Holbrook  looked  unmistakably  startled. 

"About  the  hours,  you  know, —  the  un 
clouded  ones,"  explained  David  eagerly.  "You 
know  you  said  they  were  all  cloudy  to  you." 

Miss  Holbrook's  face  grew  very  white. 

"You  mean  —  you've  found  out  why  my 
hours  are  —  are  all  cloudy  ones?"  she  stam 
mered. 

"No,  oh,  no.  I  can't  imagine  why  they  are," 
returned  David,  with  an  emphatic  shake  of  his 
head.  "It's  just  that  I  've  found  a  way  to  make 
all  my  hours  sunny  ones,  and,  you  can  do  it, 
too.  So  I  came  to  tell  you.  YOU  know  you  said 
yours  were  all  cloudy." 

"Oh,"  ejaculated  Miss  Holbrook,  falling 
back  into  her  old  listless  attitude.  Then,  with 
some  asperity:  "Dear  me,  David!  Didn't  I 
tell  you  not  to  be  remembering  that  all  the 
ome?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I've  learned  something," 
urged  the  boy;  "something  that  you  ought  to 
know.  You  see,  I  did  think,  once,  that  because 
you  had  all  these  beautiful  things  around  you, 

202 


DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

the  hours  ought  to  be  all  sunny  ones.  But  now 
I  know  it  is  n't  what's  around  you;  it's  what 
is  in  you!" 

"Oh,  David,  David,  you  curious  boy!" 

"No,  but  really!  Let  me  tell  you,"  pleaded 
David.  "You  know  I  have  n't  liked  them,  - 
all  those  hours  till  four  o'clock  came,  —  and  I 
was  so  glad,  after  I  saw  the  sundial,  to  find  out 
that  they  did  n't  count,  anyhow.  But  to-day 
they  have  counted  —  they've  all  counted,  Lady 
of  the  Roses;  and  it's  just  because  there  was 
something  inside  of  me  that  shone  and  shone, 
and  made  them  all  sunny  —  those  hours." 

"Dear  me!  And  what  was  this  wonderful 
thing?" 

David  smiled,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you  that  yet  —  in  words;  but 
I  '11  play  it.  You  see,  I  can't  always  play  them 
twice  alike,  —  those  little  songs  that  I  find,  — 
but  this  one  I  can.  It  sang  so  long  in  my  head, 
before  my  violin  had  a  chance  to  tell  me  what 
it  really  was,  that  I  sort  of  learned  it.  Now, 
listen!"  And  be  began  to  play. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  beautiful  song,  and  Miss 
Holbrook  said  so  with  promptness  and  enthu 
siasm;  yet  still  David  frowned. 

208 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  answered,  "but  don't  you 
see?  That  was  telling  you  about  something 
inside  of  me  that  made  all  my  hours  sunshiny 
ones.  Now,  what  you  want  is  something  inside 
of  you  to  make  yours  sunshiny,  too.  Don't  you 
see?" 

An  odd  look  came  into  Miss  Holbrook's  eyes. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  David, 
but  you  have  n't  told  me  yet,  you  know,  just 
what  it  is  that 's  made  all  this  brightness  for 
you." 

The  boy  changed  his  position,  and  puckered 
his  forehead  into  a  deeper  frown. 

"I  don't  seem  to  explain  so  you  can  under 
stand,"  he  sighed.  "It  is  n't  the  special  thing. 
It's  only  that  it's  something.  And  it's  thinking 
about  it  that  does  it.  Now,  mine  would  n't 
make  yours  shine,  but  —  still,"  —  he  broke  off, 
a  happy  relief  in  his  eyes,  —  "yours  could  be 
like  mine,  in  one  way.  Mine  is  something  that 
is  going  to  happen  to  me  —  something  just 
beautiful;  and  you  could  have  that,  you  know, 
—  something  that  was  going  to  happen  to  you, 
to  think  about." 

Miss  Holbrook  smiled,  but  only  with  her  lips, 
Her  eyes  had  grown  somber. 


DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

"But  there  isn't  anything  'just  beautiful* 
going  to  happen  to  me,  David,"  she  demurred. 

"There  could,  couldn't  there?"  /" 

Miss  Holbrook  bit  her  lip ;  then  she  gave  an 
odd  little  laugh  that  seemed,  in  some  way,  to 
go  with  the  swift  red  that  had  come  to  her 
cheeks. 

"I  used  to  think  there  could  —  once,"  she 
admitted;  "but  I've  given  that  up  long  ago. 
It  —  it  did  n't  happen." 

"But  could  n't  you  just  think  it  was  going 
to?"  persisted  the  boy.  "You  see  I  found  out 
yesterday  that  it's  the  thinking  that  does  it. 
All  day  long  I  was  thinking  —  only  thinking. 
I  was  n't  doing  it,  at  all.  I  was  really  raking 
behind  the  cart;  but  the  hours  all  were 
sunny." 

Miss  Holbrook  laughed  now  outright. 

"What  a  persistent  little  mental-science 
preacher  you  are!"  she  exclaimed.  "And 
there's  truth  —  more  truth  than  you  know  — 
*n  it  all,  too.  But  I  can't  do  it,  David,  —  not' 
that  —  not  that.  'T  would  take  more  than 
thinking  —  to  bring  that,"  she  added,  under  her 
breath,  as  if  to  herself. 

"But  thinking  does  bring  things,"  main* 

2O5 


JUST  DAVID 

tained  David  earnestly.  "There's  Joe  —  Joe 
Glaspell.  His  mother  works  out  all  day;  and 
he's  blind." 

"Blind?  Oh-h!"  shuddered  Miss  Holbrook. 

"Yes;  and  he  has  to  stay  all  alone,  except  for 
3etty,  and  she  is  n't  there  much.  He  thinks  all 
his  things.  He  has  to.  He  can't  see  anything 
with  his  outside  eyes.  But  he  sees  everything 
with  his  inside  eyes  —  everything  that  I  play. 
Why,  Lady  of  the  Roses,  he's  even  seen  this  — 
all  this  here.  I  told  him  about  it,  you  know, 
right  away  after  I  'd  found  you  that  first  day : 
the  big  trees  and  the  long  shadows  across  the 
grass,  and  the  roses,  and  the  shining  water,  and 
the  lovely  marble  people  peeping  through  the 
green  leaves;  and  the  sundial,  and  you  so  beau 
tiful  sitting  here  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  Then 
I  played  it  for  him;  and  he  said  he  could  see  it 
all  just  as  plain!  And  that  was  with  his  inside 
eyes !  And  so,  if  Joe,  shut  up  there  in  his  dark 
little  room,  can  make  his  think  bring  him  all 
that,  I  should  think  that  you,  here  in  this  beau 
tiful,  beautiful  place,  could  make  your  think 
bring  you  anything  you  wanted  it  to." 

But  Miss  Holbrook  sighed  again  and  shook 
her  head. 

206 


DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

"Not  that,  David,  not  that,"  she  murmured. 
"  It  would  take  more  than  thinking  to  bring  — 
that."  Then,  with  a  quick  change  of  manner, 
she  cried:  "Come,  come,  suppose  we  don't 
worry  any  more  about  my  hours.  Let's  think 
of  yours.  Tell  me,  what  have  you  been  doing 
since  I  saw  you  last?  Perhaps  you  have  been 
again  to  —  to  see  Mr.  Jack,  for  instance." 

"I  have;  but  I  saw  Jill  mostly,  till  the  last." 
David  hesitated,  then  he  blurted  it  out:  "Lady 
of  the  Roses,  do  you  know  about  the  gate  and 
the  footbridge?" 

Miss  Holbrook  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Know  —  what,  David?  " 

"Know  about  them  —  that  they're  there?'* 

"Why  —  yes,  of  course;  at  least,  I  suppose 
you  mean  the  footbridge  that  crosses  the  little 
stream  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  over  there." 

"That's  the  one."  Again  David  hesitated, 
and  again  he  blurted  out  the  burden  of  his 
thoughts.  "Lady  of  the  Roses,  did  you  ever  — 
cross  that  bridge?" 

Miss  Holbrook  stirred  uneasily. 

"Not  — recently." 

"But  you  don't  mind  folks  crossing  it?" 

"Certainly  not  —  if  they  wish  to." 
207 


JUST  DAVID 

"There!  I  knew  'twas  n't  your  blameyM 
triumphed  David. 

"My  blame!" 

"Yes;  that  Mr.  Jack  would  n't  let  Jill  come 
across,  you  know.  He  called  her  back  when 
she  'd  got  halfway  over  once." 

Miss  Holbrook's  face  changed  color. 

"But  I  do  object,"  she  cried  sharply,  "to 
their  crossing  it  when  they  don't  want  to! 
Don't  forget  that,  please." 

"But  Jill  did  want  to." 

"How  about  her  brother  —  did  he  want  her 
to?" 

"N  — no." 

"Very  well,  then.  I  did  n't,  either." 

David  frowned.  Never  had  he  seen  his  be 
loved  Lady  of  the  Roses  look  like  this  before. 
He  was  reminded  of  what  Jill  had  said  about 
Jack:  "His  face  was  all  stern  and  white,  and  his 
lips  snapped  tight  shut  after  every  word."  So, 
too,  looked  Miss  Holbrook's  face;  so,  too,  had, 
her  lips  snapped  tight  shut  after  her  last  words. 
David  could  not  understand  it.  He  said  noth 
ing  more,  however;  but,  as  was  usually  the  case 
when  he  was  perplexed,  he  picked  up  his  violin 
and  began  to  play.  And  as  he  played,  there 

208 


DAVID'S  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

gradually  came  to  Miss  Holbrook's  eyes  a  softer 
light,  and  to  her  lips  lines  less  tightly  drawn. 
Neither  the  footbridge  nor  Mr.  Jack,  however, 
was  mentioned  again  that  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

IT  was  in  the  early  twilight  that  Mr.  Jack  told 
the  story.  He,  Jill,  and  David  were  on  the 
veranda,  as  usual  watching  the  towers  of  Sun- 
nycrest  turn  from  gold  to  silver  as  the  sun 
dropped  behind  the  hills.  It  was  Jill  who  had 
asked  for  the  story. 

"About  fairies  and  princesses,  you  know," 
she  had  ordered. 

"But  how  will  David  like  that?"  Mr.  Jack 
had  demurred.  "Maybe  he  doesn't  care  for 
fairies  and  princesses." 

"  I  read  one  once  about  a  prince  —  't  was 
'The  Prince  and  the  Pauper,'  and  I  liked  that," 
averred  David  stoutly. 

Mr.  Jack  smiled;  then  his  brows  drew  to 
gether  in  a  frown.  His  eyes  were  moodily  fixed 
on  the  towers. 

"Hm-m;  well,"  he  said,  "I  might,  I  suppose, 
tell  you  a  story  about  a  Princess  and  —  a  Pau 
per.  I —  know  one  well  enough." 

210 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER' 

"Good!— then  tell  it,"  cried  both  Jill  and 
David.  And  Mr.  Jack  began  his  story. 

"She  was  not  always  a  Princess,  and  he  was 
not  always  a  Pauper,  —  and  that's  where  the 
story  came  in,  I  suppose,"  sighed  the  man. 
"She  was  just  a  girl,  once,  and  he  was  a  boy; 
and  they  played  together  and  —  liked  each 
other.  He  lived  in  a  little  house  on  a  hill." 

"Like  this?"  demanded  Jill. 

"Eh?  Oh — er — yes,  something  like  this," 
returned  Mr.  Jack,  with  an  odd  half-smile. 
"And  she  lived  in  another  bit  of  a  house  in  a 
town  far  away  from  the  boy." 

"Then  how  could  they  play  together?" 
questioned  David. 

"They  could  n't,  always.  It  was  only  sum 
mers  when  she  came  to  visit  in  the  boy's  town. 
She  was  very  near  him  then,  for  the  old  aunt 
whom  she  visited  lived  in  a  big  stone  house 
with  towers,  on  another  hill,  in  plain  sight  from 
the  boy's  home." 

I   "Towers  like  those  —  where  the  Lady  of  the 
Roses  lives?"  asked  David. 

"Eh?  What?  Oh  — er— yes,"  murmured 
Mr.  Jack.  "We  '11  say  the  towers  were  some 
thing  like  those  over  there."  He  paused,  then 

211 


JUST  DAVID 

went  on  musingly:  "The  girl  used  to  signal, 
sometimes,  from  one  of  the  tower  windows.  One 
wave  of  the  handkerchief  meant,  '  I  'm  coming 
over';  two  waves,  with  a  little  pause  between, 
meant,  'You  are  to  come  over  here.'  So  the 
boy  used  to  wait  always,  after  that  first  wave 
to  see  if  another  followed;  so  that  he  might 
know  whether  he  were  to  be  host  or  guest  that 
day.  The  waves  always  came  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  very  eagerly  the  boy  used 
to  watch  for  them  all  through  ths  summer 
when  the  girl  was  there." 

"Did  they  always  come,  every  morning?" 
asked  Jill. 

"No;  sometimes  the  girl  had  other  things  to 
do.  Her  aunt  would  want  her  to  go  somewhere 
with  her,  or  other  cousins  were  expected  whom 
the  girl  must  entertain;  and  she  knew  the  boy 
did  not  like  other  guests  to  be  there  when  he 
was,  so  she  never  asked  him  to  come  over  at 
such  times.  On  such  occasions  she  did  some 
times  run  up  to  the  tower  at  eight  o'clock  and 
wave  three  times,  and  that  meant,  'Dead  Day.' 
Sc  the  boy,  after  all,  never  drew  a  real  breath 
of  relief  until  he  made  sure  that  no  dreaded 
third  wave  was  to  follow  the  one  or  the  two." 

212 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

"Seems  to  me,"  observed  David,  "that  all 
this  was  sort  of  one-sided.  Did  n't  the  boy 
say  anything?" 

"Oh,  yes,''  smiled  Mr.  Jack.  "But  the  boy 
'  did  not  have  any  tower  to  wave  from,  you  must 
remember.  He  had  only  the  little  piazza  on  his 
tiny  bit  of  a  house.  But  he  rigged  up  a  pole, 
and  he  asked  his  mother  to  make  him  two  little 
flags,  a  red  and  a  blue  one.  The  red  meant 
'All  right ' ;  and  the  blue  meant '  Got  to  work ' ; 
and  these  he  used  to  run  up  on  his  pole  in  an 
swer  to  her  waving  '  I  'm  coming  over/  or 
'You  are  to  come  over  here.'  So,  you  see,  oc 
casionally  it  was  the  boy  who  had  to  bring  the 
'Dead  Day,'  as  there  were  times  when  he  had 
to  work.  And,  by  the  way,  perhaps  you  would 
be  interested  to  know  that  after  a  while  he 
thought  up  a  third  flag  to  answer  her  three 
waves.  He  found  an  old  black  silk  handker 
chief  of  his  father's,  and  he  made  that  into  a 
flag.  He  told  the  girl  it  meant  '  I  'm  heart 
broken,'  and  he  said  it  was  a  sign  of  the  deepest 
mourning.  The  girl  laughed  and  tipped  her 
head  saucily  to  one  side,  and  said,  'Pooh!  as 
if  you  really  cared!'  But  the  boy  stoutly 
maintained  his  position,  and  it  was  that, 

2l3 


JUST  DAVID 

perhaps,  which  made  her  play  the  little  joke 
one  day. 

"The  boy  was  fourteen  that  summer,  and 
the  girl  thirteen.  They  had  begun  their  signals 
years  before,  but  they  had  not  had  the  black 
one  so  long.  On  this  day  that  I  tell  you  of,  the 
girl  waved  three  waves,  which  meant,  'Dead 
Day/  you  remember,  and  watched  until  the 
boy  had  hoisted  his  black  flag  which  said,  '  I  'm 
heart-broken,'  in  response.  Then,  as  fast  as  her 
mischievous  little  feet  could  carry  her,  she  raced 
down  one  hill  and  across  to  the  other.  Very 
stealthily  she  advanced  till  she  found  the  boy 
bent  over  a  puzzle  on  the  back  stoop,  and  — 
and  he  was  whistling  merrily. 

"How  she  teased  him  then !  How  she  taunted 
him  with  'Heart-broken,  indeed  —  and  whis 
tling  like  that!'  In  vain  he  blushed  and  stam 
mered,  and  protested  that  his  whistling  was 
only  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  The  girl  only 
laughed  and  tossed  her  yellow  curls;  then  she 
hunted  till  she  found  some  little  jingling  bells, 
and  these  she  tied  to  the  black  badge  of  mourn 
ing  and  pulled  it  high  up  on  the  flagpole.  The 
next  instant  she  was  off  with  a  run  and  a  skip, 
and  a  saucy  wave  of  her  hand;  and  the  boy 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER'* 

was  left  all  alone  with  an  hour's  work  ahead  of 
him  to  untie  the  knots  from  his  desecrated 
badge  of  mourning. 

"And  yet  they  were  wonderfully  good  friends 
—  this  boy  and  girl.  From  the  very  first,  when 
they  were  seven  and  eight,  they  had  said  that 
they  would  marry  each  other  when  they  grew 
up,  and  always  they  spoke  of  it  as  the  expected 
thing,  and  laid  many  happy  plans  for  the  time 
when  it  should  come.  To  be  sure,  as  they  grew 
older,  it  was  not  mentioned  quite  so  often,  per 
haps;  but  the  boy  at  least  thought  —  if  he 
thought  of  it  all  —  that  that  was  only  because 
it  was  already  so  well  understood." 

"What  did  the  girl  think?"  It  was  Jill  who 
asked  the  question. 

"Eh?  The  girl?  Oh,"  answered  Mr.  Jack, 
a  little  bitterly,  'I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  _x- 
actly  what  the  girl  did  think,  but  —  it  was  n't 
that,  anyhow  —  that  is,  judging  from  what 
followed." 

"What  did  follow?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  the  old  aunt  died. 
The  girl  was  sixteen  then.  It  was  in  the  winter 
that  this  happened,  and  the  girl  was  far  away 
at  school.  She  came  to  the  funeral,  however, 

2l5 


JUST  DAVID 

but  the  boy  did  not  see  her,  save  in  the  dis 
tance;  and  then  he  hardly  knew  her,  so  strange 
did  she  look  in  her  black  dress  and  hat.  She 
was  there  only  two  days,  and  though  he  gazed 
•wistfully  up  at  the  gray  tower,  he  knew  well 
enough  that  of  course  she  could  not  wave  to 
him  at  such  a  time  as  that.  Yet  he  had  hoped 
—  almost  believed  that  she  would  wave  two 
waves  that  last  day,  and  let  him  go  over  to 
see  her. 

"But  she  did  n't  wave,  and  he  did  n't  go 
over.  She  went  away.  And  then  the  town 
learned  a  wonderful  thing.  The  old  lady,  her 
aunt,  who  had  been  considered  just  fairly  rich, 
turned  out  to  be  the  possessor  of  almost  fabu 
lous  wealth,  owing  to  her  great  holdings  of 
stock  in  a  Western  gold  mine  which  had  sud 
denly  struck  it  rich.  And  to  the  girl  she  willed 
it  all.  It  was  then,  of  course,  that  the  girl  be 
came  the  Princess,  but  the  boy  did  not  realize 
that  —  just  then.  To  him  she  was  still  'the 
girl/ 

"For  three  years  he  did  not  see  her.  She  was 
at  school,  or  traveling  abroad,  he  heard.  He, 
too,  had  been  away  to  school,  and  was,  indeed, 
just  ready  to  enter  college.  Then,  that  summer, 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

he  heard  that  she  was  coining  to  the  old  home, 
and  his  heart  sang  within  him.  Remember,  to 
him  she  was  still  the  girl.  He  knew,  of  course, 
that  she  was  not  the  little  girl  who  had  promised 
to  marry  him.  But  he  was  sure  she  was  the 
merry  comrade,  the  true-hearted  young  girl 
who  used  to  smile  frankly  into  his  eyes,  and 
whom  he  was  now  to  win  for  his  wife.  You  see 
he  had  forgotten —  quite  forgotten  about  the 
Princess  and  the  money.  Such  a  foolish,  foolish 
boy  as  he-  was ! 

"So  he  got  out  his  flags  gleefully,  and  one 
day,  when  his  mother  was  n't  in  the  kitchen, 
he  ironed  out  uie  wrinkles  and  smoothed  them 
all  ready  to  be  raised  on  the  pole.  He  would  be 
ready  when  the  girl  waved  —  for  of  course  she 
would  wave;  he  would  show  her  that  he  had 
not  forgotten.  He  could  see  just  how  the 
sparkle  would  come  to  her  eyes,  and  just  how 
the  little  fine  lines  of  mischief  would  crinkle 
around  her  nose  when  she  was  ready  to  give 
that  first  wave.  He  could  imagine  that  she 
would  like  to  find  him  napping;  that  she  would 
like  to  take  him  by  surprise,  and  make  him 
scurry  around  for  his  flags  to  answer  her. 

"But  he  would  show  her!  As  if  she,  a  girl, 
217 


JUST  DAVID 

were  to  beat  him  at  their  old  game!  He  won 
dered  which  it  would  be:  'I'm  coming  over,* 
or,  'You  are  to  come  over  here.'  Whichever  it 
was,  he  would  answer,  of  course,  with  the  red 
'All  right.'  Still,  it  would  be  a  joke  to  run  up 
the  blue  'Got  to  work,'  and  then  slip  across  to 
see  her,  just  as  she,  so  long  ago,  had  played 
the  joke  on  him!  On  the  whole,  however,  he 
thought  the  red  flag  would  be  better.  And  it 
was  that  one  which  he  laid  uppermost  ready  to 
his  hand,  when  he  arranged  them. 

"At  last  she  came.  He  heard  of  it  at  once. 
It  was  already  past  four  o'clock,  but  he  could 
not  forbear,  even  then,  to  look  toward  the 
tower.  It  would  be  like  her,  after  all,  to  wave 
then,  that  very  night,  just  so  as  to  catch  him 
napping,  he  thought.  She  did  not  wave,  how 
ever.  The  boy  was  sure  of  that,  for  he  watched 
the  tower  till  dark. 

"In  the  morning,  long  before  eight  o'clock, 
the  boy  was  ready.  He  debated  for  some  time 
whether  to  stand  out  of  doors  on  the  piazza,  or 
to  hide  behind  the  screened  window,  where  he 
could  still  watch  the  tower.  He  decided  at  last 
that  it  would  be  better  not  to  let  her  see  him 
when  she  looked  toward  the  house;  then  his 

218 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

triumph  would  be  all  the  more  complete  when 
he  dashed  out  to  run  up  his  answer. 

"Eight  o'clock  came  and  passed.  The  boy 
waited  until  nine,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life 
from  the  tower.  The  boy  was  angry  then,  at 
himself.  He  called  himself,  indeed,  a  fool,  to 
hide  as  he  did.  Of  course  she  would  n't  wave 
when  he  was  nowhere  in  sight  —  when  he  had 
apparently  forgotten!  And  here  was  a  whole 
precious  day  wasted ! 

"The  next  morning,  long  before  eight,  the 
boy  stood  in  plain  sight  on  the  piazza.  As  be 
fore  he  waited  until  nine;  and  as  before  there 
was  no  sign  of  life  at  the  tower  window.  The 
next  morning  he  was  there  again,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next.  It  took  just  five  days,  indeed,  to 
convince  the  boy  —  as  he  was  convinced  at 
last  —  that  the  girl  did  not  intend  to  wave 
at  all." 

"But  how  unkind  of  her!"  exclaimed  David. 

"She  could  n't  have  been  nice  one  bit!"  de-/ 
cided  Jill. 

"You  forget,"  said  Mr.  Jack.  "She  was  the 
Princess." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Jill  and  David  in  unison. 

"The  boy  remembered  it  then,"  went  on 
219 


JUST  DAVID 

Mr.  Jack,  after  a  pause,  —  "about  the  money, 
and  that  she  was  a  Princess.  And  of  course  he 
knew  —  when  he  thought  of  it  —  that  he  could 
not  expect  that  a  Princess  would  wave  like  a  girl 
—  just  a  girl.  Besides,  very  likely  she  did  not 
care  particularly  about  seeing  him.  Princesses 
did  forget,  he  fancied,  —  they  had  so  much,  so 
very  much  to  fill  their  lives.  It  was  this  thought 
that  kept  him  from  going  to  see  her  —  this, 
and  the  recollection  that,  after  all,  if  she  really 
had  wanted  to  see  him,  she  couid  have  waved. 
"There  came  a  day,  however,  when  another 
youth,  who  did  not  dare  to  go  alone,  persuaded 
him,  and  together  they  paid  her  a  call.  The 
boy  understood,  then,  many  things.  He  found 
the  Princess;  there  was  no  sign  of  the  girl.  The 
Princess  was  tall  and  dignified,  with  a  cold  little 
hand  and  a  smooth,  sweet  voice.  There  was  no 
frank  smile  in  her  eyes,  neither  were  there  any 
mischievous  crinkles  about  her  nose  and  lips. 
There  was  no  mention  of  towers  or  flags;  no 
reference  to  wavings  or  to  childhood's  days. 
There  was  only  a  stiffly  polite  little  conversa 
tion  about  colleges  and  travels,  with  a  word  or 
two  about  books  and  plays.  Then  the  callers 
went  home.  On  the  way  the  boy  smiled  scora^ 

220 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

fully  to  himself.  He  was  trying  to  picture  the 
beauteous  vision  he  had  seen,  this  unapproach 
able  Princess  in  her  filmy  lace  gown,  — standing 
in  the  tower  window  and  waving — waving  to 
a  bit  of  a  house  on  the  opposite  hill.  As  if  that 
could  happen ! 

"The  boy,  during  those  last  three  years,  had 
known  only  books.  He  knew  little  of  girls — 
Only  one  girl  —  and  he  knew  still  less  of  Prin 
cesses.  So  when,  three  days  after  the  call,  there 
came  a  chance  to  join  a  summer  camp  with  a 
man  who  loved  books  even  better  than  did  the 
boy  himself,  he  went  gladly.  Once  he  had  re 
fused  to  go  on  this  very  trip;  but  then  there, 
had  been  the  girl.  Now  there  was  only  the 
Princess —  and  the  Princess  did  n't  count." 

"Like  the  hours  that  aren't  sunshiny,"  in 
terpreted  David. 

"Yes,"  corroborated  Mr.  Jack.  "Like  the 
hours  when  the  sun  does  n't  shine." 

"And  then?"  prompted  Jill. 

"Well,  then,  —  there  was  n't  much  worth 
telling,"  rejoined  Mr.  Jack  gloomily.  "Two 
more  years  passed,  and  the  Princess  grew  to  be 
twenty-one.  She  came  into  full  control  of  her 
property  then,  and  after  a  while  she  came  back 

221 


JUST  DAVID 

to  the  old  stone  house  with  the  towers  and 
turned  it  into  a  fairyland  of  beauty.  She  spent 
money  like  water.  All  manner  of  artists,  from 
the  man  who  painted  her  ceilings  to  the  mar 
who  planted  her  seeds,  came  and  bowed  to  her 
will.  From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  she 
brought  her  treasures  and  lavished  them 
through  the  house  and  grounds.  Then,  every 
summer,  she  came  herself,  and  lived  among 
them,  a  very  Princess  indeed." 

"And  the  boy?  —  what  became  of  the  boy?" 
demanded  David.  "Didn't  he  see  her  — 
ever?" 

Mr.  Jack  shook  his  head. 

"Not  often,  David;  and  when  he  did,  it  did 
not  make  him  any  —  happier.  You  see,  the 
boy  had  become  the  Pauper;  you  must  n't  for 
get  that." 

"But  he  was  n't  a  Pauper  when  you  left  him 
last." 

"Was  n't  he?  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  about 
that.  You  see,  the  boy,  even  though  he  did  go 
away,  soon  found  out  that  in  his  heart  the 
Princess  was  still  the  girl,  just  the  same.  He 
loved  her,  and  he  wanted  her  to  be  his  wife;  so 
for  a  little  —  for  a  very  little  —  he  was  wild 

222 


"THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PAUPER** 

enough  to  think  that  he  might  work  and  study 
and  do  great  things  in  the  world  until  he  was 
even  a  Prince  himself,  and  then  he  could  many 
the  Princess." 

"Well,  could  n't  he?" 

"No.  To  begin  with,  he  lost  his  health. 
Then,  away  back  in  the  little  house  on  the  hill 
something  happened  —  a  something  that  left  a 
very  precious  charge  for  him  to  keep;  and  he 
had  to  go  back  and  keep  it,  and  to  try  to  see 
if  he  could  n't  find  that  lost  health,  as  well. 
And  that  is  all." 

"All!  You  don't  mean  that  that  is  the  end!" 
exclaimed  Jill. 

"That's  the  end." 

"But  that  is  n't  a  mite  of  a  nice  end,"  com 
plained  David.  "They  always  get  married  and 
live  happy  ever  after  —  in  stories." 

"Do  they?"  Mr.  Jack  smiled  a  little  sadly. 
"Perhaps  they  do,  David,  —  in  stories." 

"Well,  can't  they  in  this  one?" 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"Why  can't  he  go  to  her  and  ask  her  to 
marry  him?" 

Mr.  Jack  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

"The  Pauper  and  the  Princess?  Never! 
228 


JUST  DAVID 

Paupers  don't  go  to  Princesses,  David,  and  say, 
*  I  love  you. ' ' 

David  frowned. 

"Why  not?  I  don't  see  why  —  if  they  want 
to  do  it.  Seems  as  if  somehow  it  might  be 
fixed." 

"It  can't  be,"  returned  Mr.  Jack,  his  gaze 
on  the  towers  that  crowned  the  opposite  hill; 
"not  so  long  as  always  before  the  Pauper's 
eyes  there  are  those  gray  walls  behind  which 
he  pictures  the  Princess  in  the  midst  of  her 
golden  luxury." 

To  neither  David  nor  Jill  did  the  change  to 
the  present  tense  seem  strange.  The  story  was 
much  too  real  to  them  for  that. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  think  it  ought  to  be  fixed," 
declared  David,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  So  do  I  —  but  we  can't  fix  it,"  laughed  Jill. 
"And  I'm  hungry.  Let 's  see  what  there  is  to 
eat!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

IT  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  but  for 
once  David  was  not  thinking  of  the  moon.  All 
the  way  to  the  Holly  farmhouse  he  was  think 
ing  of  Mr.  Jack's  story,  "The  Princess  and  the 
Pauper."  It  held  him  strangely.  He  felt  that 
he  never  could  forget  it.  For  some  reason  that 
he  could  not  have  explained,  it  made  him  sad, 
too,  and  his  step  was  very  quiet  as  he  went  up 
the  walk  toward  the  kitchen  door. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock.  David  had  taken 
supper  with  Mr.  Jack  and  Jill,  and  not  for  some 
hours  had  he  been  at  the  farmhouse.  In  the 
doorway  now  he  stopped  short;  then  instinc 
tively  he  stepped  back  into  the  shadow.  In  the 
kitchen  a  kerosene  light  was  burning.  It  showed 
Mrs.  Holly  crying  at  the  table,  and  Mr.  Holly, 
white-faced  and  stern-lipped,  staring  at  noth 
ing.  Then  Mrs.  Holly  raised  her  face,  drawn  and 
tear-stained,  and  asked  a  trembling  question. 

"Simeon,  have  you  thought?  We  might  go 
—  to  John  —  for  —  help." 

225 


JUST  DAVID 

David  was  frightened  then,  so  angry  was  the 
look  that  came  into  Simeon  Holly's  face. 

"Ellen,  we'll  have  no  more  of  this,"  said  the 
man  harshly.  "Understand,  I 'd  rather  lose  the 
whole  thing  and  —  and  starve,  than  go  to  — 
John." 

David  fled  then.  Up  the  back  stairs  he  crept 
to  his  room  and  left  his  violin.  A  moment  later 
he  stole  down  again  and  sought  Perry  Larson 
whom  he  had  seen  smoking  in  the  barn  doorway. 

"Perry,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "What  has  happened  —  in  there?"  He 
pointed  toward  the  house. 

The  man  puffed  for  a  moment  in  silence  be 
fore  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"Well,  sonny,  I  s'pose  I  may  as  well  tell  ye. 
You'll  have  ter  know  it  sometime,  seein'  as 
't  won't  be  no  secret  long.  They've  had  a 
stroke  o'  bad  luck  —  Mr.  an'  Mis'  Holly  has." 

"What  is  it?" 

The  man  hitched  in  his  seat. 

"By  sugar,  boy,  I  s'pose  if  I  tell  ye,  there 
ain't  no  sartinty  that  you'll  sense  it  at  all.  I 
reckon  it  ain't  in  your  class." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"Well,  it's  money  —  and  one  might  as  well 
226 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

talk  moonshine  to  you  as  money,  I  s'pose;  but 
here  goes  it.  It's  a  thousand  dollars,  boy,  that 
they  owed.  Here,  like  this,"  he  explained,  rum 
maging  his  pockets  until  he  had  found  a  silver 
dollar  to  lay  on  his  open  palm.  "Now,  jest 
imagine  a  thousand  of  them;  that's  heaps  an* 
heaps  —  more'n  I  ever  see  in  my  life." 

"Like  the  stars?"  guessed  David. 

The  man  nodded. 

"Ex-ac/ly!  Well,  they  owed  this  —  Mr.  an' 
Mis'  Holly  did  —  and  they  had  agreed  ter  pay 
it  next  Sat'day.  And  they  was  all  right,  too. 
They  had  it  plum  saved  in  the  bank,  an'  was 
goin'  ter  draw  it  Thursday,  ter  make  sure.  An' 
they  was  feelin'  mighty  pert  over  it,  too,  when 
ter-day  along  comes  the  news  that  somethin's 
broke  kersmash  in  that  bank,  an'  they've  shet 
it  up.  An'  nary  a  cent  can  the  Hollys  git  now  — 
an'  maybe  never.  Anyhow,  not  'fore  it's  too 
late  for  this  job." 

"But  won't  he  wait?  —  that  man  they  owe 
it  to?  I  should  think  he'd  have  to,  if  they 
did  n't  have  it  to  pay." 

"Not  much  he  will,  when  it's  old  Streeter 
that's  got  the  mortgage  on  a  good  fat  farm 
like  this!" 

227 


JUST  DAVID 

David  drew  his  brows  together  perplexedly. 

"What  is  a  —  a  mortgage?"  he  asked.  "Is  it 
anything  like  a  porte-cochere?  I  know  what  that 
is,  'cause  my  Lady  of  the  Roses  has  one;  but 
we  have  n't  got  that  —  down  here." 

Perry  Larson  sighed  in  exasperation. 

"Gosh,  if  that  ain't  'bout  what  I  expected  cf 
ye!  No,  it  ain't  even  second  cousin  to  a  —  a  — 
that  thing  you're  a-talkin'  of.  In  plain  wordin', 
it's  jest  this:  Mr.  Holly,  he  says  ter  Streeter: 
'You  give  me  a  thousand  dollars  and  I'll  pay 
ye  back  on  a  sartin  day;  if  I  don't  pay,  you  can 
sell  my  farm  fur  what  it'll  bring,  an'  take  yer 
pay.  Well,  now  here  't  is.  Mr.  Holly  can't  pay, 
an'  so  Streeter  will  put  up  the  farm  fur  sale." 

"What,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holly  living 
here?" 

"Sure!  Only  they'll  have  ter  git  out,  ye 
know." 

"Where '11  they  go?" 

"The  Lord  knows;  I  don't." 

"And  is  that  what  they're  crying  for  —  in 
there?  —  because  they've  got  to  go?" 

"Sure!" 

"But  is  n't  there  anything,  anywhere,  that 
can  be  done  to  —  stop  it?" 

228 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"  I  don't  see  how,  kid,  —  not  unless  some  one 
ponies  up  with  the  money  'fore  next  Sat'day,  — 
an'  a  thousand  o'  them  things  don't  grow  on 
ev'ry  bush,"  he  finished,  gently  patting  the 
coin  in  his  hand. 

At  the  words  a  swift  change  came  to  David's 
face.  His  cheeks  paled  and  his  eyes  dilated  in 
terror.  It  was  as  if  ahead  of  him  he  saw  a  yawn 
ing  abyss,  eager  to  engulf  him. 

"And  you  say  —  money  would  —  fix  it?"  he 
asked  thickly. 

"Ex-ac/-ly!  —  a  thousand  o'  them,  though, 
't  would  take." 

A  dawning  relief  came  into  David's  eyes  — 
it  was  as  if  he  saw  a  bridge  across  the  abyss. 

"You  mean  —  that  there  would  n't  anything 
do,  only  silver  pieces  —  like  those?"  he  ques 
tioned  hopefully. 

"Sugar,  kid,  'course  there  would!  Gosh,  but 

you  be  a  checkerboard  o'  sense  an'  nonsense,  an* 

no  mistake !  Any  money  would  do  the  job — any 

'money !  Don't  ye  see?  Anything  that's  money.'* 

"Would  g-gold  do  it?"  David's  voice  was 
very  faint  now. 

"  Sure !  —  gold,  or  silver,  or  greenbacks,  or  — • 
or  a  check,  if  it  had  the  dough  behind  it." 

22Q 


JUST  DAVID 

David  did  not  appear  to  hear  the  last.  With 
an  oddly  strained  look  he  had  hung  upon  the 
man's  first  words;  but  at  the  end  of  the  sentence 
he  only  murmured,  "Oh,  thank  you,"  and 
turned  away.  He  was  walking  slowly  now 
towai-d  the  house.  His  head  was  bowed.  His 
step  lagged. 

"Now,  ain't  that  jest  like  that  chap,"  mut 
tered  the  man,  "ter  slink  off  like  that  as  if  he 
was  a  whipped  cur.  I'll  bet  two  cents  an*  a 
doughnut,  too,  that  in  five  minutes  he'll  be 
what  he  calls  'playin'  it'  on  that  'ere  fiddle  o* 
his.  An'  I  '11  be  derned,  too,  if  I  ain't  curious  ter 
see  what  he  will  make  of  it.  It  strikes  me  this 
ought  ter  fetch  somethin'  first  cousin  to  a  dirge ! " 

On  the  porch  steps  David  paused  a  breath 
less  instant.  From  the  kitchen  came  the  sound 
of  Mrs.  Holly's  sobs  and  of  a  stern  voice  pray 
ing.  With  a  shudder  and  a  little  choking  cry 
the  boy  turned  then  and  crept  softly  upstairs 
to  his  room. 

He  played,  too,  as  Perry  Larson  had  wagered. 
But  it  was  not  the  tragedy  of  the  closed  bank, 
nor  the  horror  of  the  threatened  farm-selling 
that  fell  from  his  violin.  It  was,  instead,  the 
swan  song  of  a  little  pile  of  gold  —  gold  which 

280 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

lay  now  in  a  chimney  cupboard,  but  which  was 
soon  to  be  placed  at  the  feet  of  the  mourning 
man  and  woman  downstairs.  And  in  the  song 
was  the  sob  of  a  boy  who  sees  his  house  of 
dreams  burn  to  ashes;  who  sees  his  wonderful 
life  and  work  out  in  the  wide  world  turn  tc 
endless  days  of  weed-pulling  and  dirt-digging 
in  a  narrow  valley.  There  was  in  the  song,  too, 
something  of  the  struggle,  the  fierce  yea  and 
nay  of  the  conflict.  But,  at  the  end,  there  was 
the  wild  burst  of  exaltation  of  renunciation,  so 
that  the  man  in  the  barn  door  below  fairly 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  angry :  — 

"Gosh!  if  he  hain't  turned  the  thing  into  a 
jig  —  durn  him!  Don't  he  know  more'n  that 
at  such  a  time  as  this?" 

Later,  a  very  little  later,  the  shadowy  figure 
of  the  boy  stood  before  him. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  stammered  David, 
"  that  maybe  I  —  could  help,  about  that  money, 
you  know." 

"Now,  look  a-here,  boy,"  exploded  Perry,  in 
open  exasperation,  "  as  I  said  in  the  first  place, 
this  ain't  in  your  class.  'T  ain't  no  pink  cloud 
sailin'  in  the  sky,  nor  a  bluebird  singin'  in  a 
blackb'rry  bush.  An'  you  might  'play  it'  -  -  as 

23 1 


JUST  DAVID 

you  call  it  —  till  doomsday,  an'  't  would  n't  do 
no  good  —  though  I'm  free  ter  confess  that 
your  playin'  of  them  'ere  other  things  sounds 
real  pert  an'  chirky  at  times;  but  't  won't  do 
no  good  here." 

David  stepped  forward,  bringing  his  small, 
anxious  face  full  into  the  moonlight. 

"  But 't  was  the  money,  Perry;  I  meant  about 
the  money,"  he  explained.  "They  were  good 
to  me  and  wanted  me  when  there  was  n't  any 
one  else  that  did;  and  now  I'd  like  to  do  some 
thing  for  them.  There  are  n't  so  many  pieces, 
and  they  are  n't  silver.  There's  only  one  hun 
dred  and  six  of  them;  I  counted.  But  maybe 
they  'd  help  some.  It  —  it  would  be  a  —  start." 
His  voice  broke  over  the  once  beloved  word, 
then  went  on  with  renewed  strength.  "There, 
see!  Would  these  do?"  And  with  both  hands 
he  held  up  to  view  his  cap  sagging  under  its 
weight  of  gold. 

Perry  Larson's  jaw  fell  open.  His  eyes 
bulged.  Dazedly  he  reached  out  and  touched 
'with  trembling  fingers  the  heap  of  shining 
disks  that  seemed  in  the  mellow  light  like  little 
earth-born  children  of  the  moon  itself.  The 
next  instant  he  recoiled  sharply. 

282 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Great  snakes,  boy,  where 'd  you  git  that 
money?"  he  demanded. 

"Of  father.  He  went  to  the  far  country,  you 
know." 

Perry  Larson  snorted  angrily. 

"See  here,  boy,  for  once,  if  ye  can,  talk 
horse-sense !  Surely,  even  you  don't  expect  me 
ter  believe  that  he's  sent  you  that  money  from 
—  from  where  he's  gone  to!" 

"Oh,  no.  He  left  it." 

"Left  it!  Why,  boy,  you  know  better!  There 
wa'n't  a  cent  —  hardly  —  found  on  him." 

"He  gave  it  to  me  before — by  the  road 
side." 

"Gave  it  to  you!  Where  in  the  name  of 
goodness  has  it  been  since?" 

"  In  the  little  cupboard  in  my  room,  behind 
the  books." 

"Great  snakes!"  muttered  Perry  Larson, 
reaching  out  his  hand  and  gingerly  picking  up 
one  of  the  gold-pieces. 

David  eyed  him  anxiously. 

"Won't  they  — do?"  he  faltered.    "There1 
are  n't  a  thousand;  there's  only  a  hundred  and 
six;  but — " 

"Do!"  cut  in  the  man,  excitedly.   He  had 
233 


JUST  DAVID 

been  examining  the  gold-piece  at  close  range* 
"Do!  Well,  I  reckon  they'll  do.  By  Jiminy ! - 
and  ter  think  you've  had  this  up  yer  sleeve  all 
this  time!  Well,  I'll  believe  any  thin'  of  yer 
now — anythin'!  You  can't  stump  me  with 
nuthin' !  Come  on."  And  he  hurriedly  led  the 
way  toward  the  house. 

"But  they  were  n't  up  my  sleeve,"  corrected 
David,  as  he  tried  to  keep  up  with  the  long 
strides  of  the  man.  "I  said  they  were  in  the 
cupboard  in  my  room." 

There  was  no  answer.  Larson  had  reached 
the  porch  steps,  and  had  paused  there  hesitat 
ingly.  From  the  kitchen  still  came  the  sound 
of  sobs.  Aside  from  that  there  was  silence. 
The  boy,  however,  did  not  hesitate.  He  went 
straight  up  the  steps  and  through  the  open 
kitchen  door.  At  the  table  sat  the  man  and  the 
woman,  their  eyes  covered  with  their  hands. 

With  a  swift  overturning  of  his  cap,  David 
dumped  his  burden  onto  the  table,  and  stepped 
back  respectfully. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  would  this  —  help  any?" 
he  asked. 

At  the  jingle  of  the  coins  Simeon  Holly  and 
his  wife  lifted  their  heads  abruptly.  A  half- 

234 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

uttered  sob  died  on  the  woman's  lips.  A  quick 
cry  came  from  the  man's.  He  reached  forth  an 
eager  hand  and  had  almost  clutched  the  gold 
when  a  sudden  change  came  to  his  face.  With 
a  stern  ejaculation  he  drew  back. 

"Boy,  where  did  that  money  come  from?' 
he  challenged. 

David  sighed  in  a  discouraged  way.  It 
seemed  that,  always,  the  showing  of  this  gold 
meant  questioning  —  eternal  questioning. 

"Surely,"  continued  Simeon  Holly,  "you  did 
not — "  With  the  boy's  frank  gaze  upturned  to 
his,  the  man  could  not  finish  his  sentence. 

Before  David  could  answer  came  the  voice 
of  Perry  Larson  from  the  kitchen  doorway. 

"No,  sir,  he  didn't,  Mr.  Holly;  an'  it's  all 
straight,  I  'm  thinkin'  -  -  though  I  'm  free  ter 
confess  it  does  sound  nutty.  His  dad  give  it  to 
him." 

"His  — father!  But  where  —  where  has  it 
been  ever  since?" 

"In  the  chimney  cupboard  in  his  room,  he 
says,  sir." 

Simeon  Holly  turned  in  frowning  amazement. 

"David,  what  does  this  mean?  Why  have 
you  kept  this  gold  in  a  place  like  that?" 

235 


JUST  DAVID 

"Why,  there  was  n't  anything  else  to  do  witn 
it,"  answered  the  boy  perplexedly.  "  I  had  n't 
any  use  for  it,  you  know,  and  father  said  to 
keep  it  till  I  needed  it." 

"'Had  n't  any  use  for  it'!"  blustered  Larson 
from  the  doorway.  "Jiminy!  Now,  ain't  that 
jest  like  that  boy?" 

But  David  hurried  on  with  his  explanation. 

"We  never  used  to  use  them  —  father  and 
I  —  except  to  buy  things  to  eat  and  wear;  and 
down  here  you  give  me  those,  you  know." 

" Gorry ! "  interjected  Perry  Larson.  "Do  you 
reckon,  boy,  that  Mr.  Holly  himself  was  give 
them  things  he  gives  ter  you?" 

The  boy  turned  sharply,  a  startled  question 
in  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean  that  — 
His  face  changed  suddenly.  His  cheeks  turned 
a  shamed  red.  "Why,  he  did  —  he  did  have 
to  buy  them,  of  course,  just  as  father  did.  And 
I  never  even  thought  of  it  before!  Then,  it's 
yours,  anyway  —  it  belongs  to  you,"  he  argued, 
turning  to  Farmer  Holly,  and  shoving  the  gold 
nearer  to  his  hands.  "There  is  n't  enough, 
maybe  —  but 't  will  help !" 

"They're  ten-dollar  gold  pieces,  sir,"  spoke 
286 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

up  Larson  importantly;  "an'  there's  a  hundred 
an'  six  of  them.  That's  jest  one  thousand  an* 
sixty  dollars,  as  I  make  it." 

Simeon  Holly,  self-controlled  man  that  he 
was,  almost  leaped  from  his  chair. 

"One  thousand  and  sixty  dollars !"  he  gasped. 
Then,  to  David:  "Boy,  in  Heaven's  name,  who 
are  you?" 

"I  don't  know  —  only  David."  The  boy 
spoke  wearily,  with  a  grieved  sob  in  his  voice. 
He  was  very  tired,  a  good  deal  perplexed,  and 
a  little  angry.  He  wished,  if  no  one  wanted  this 
gold,  that  he  could  take  it  upstairs  again  to  the 
chimney  cupboard;  or,  if  they  objected  to  that, 
that  they  would  at  least  give  it  to  him,  and 
let  him  go  away  now  to  that  beautiful  music  he 
was  to  hear,  and  to  those  kind  people  who  were 
always  to  understand  what  he  said  when  he 
played. 

"Of  course,"  ventured  Perry  Larson  diffi 
dently,  "I  ain't  professin'  ter  know  any  great 
shakes  about  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  Mr.  Holly, 
but  it  do  strike  me  that  this  'ere  gold  comes 
mighty  near  bein'  proverdential  —  fur  you." 

Simeon  Holly  fell  back  in  his  seat.  His  eyes 
clung  to  the  gold,  but  his  iips  set  into  rigid  lines. 

287 


JUST  DAVID 

"That  money  is  the  boy's,  Larson.  It  is  n't 
mine,"  he  said. 

"He's  give  it  to  ye." 

Simeon  Holly  shook  his  head. 

"David  is  nothing  but  a  child,  Perry.  He 
does  n't  realize  at  all  what  he  is  doing,  nor  how 
valuable  his  gift  is." 

"I  know,  sir,  but  you  did  take  him  in,  when 
there  would  n't  nobody  else  do  it,"  argued 
Larson.  "An',  anyhow,  could  n't  you  make  a 
kind  of  an  I  0  U  of  it,  even  if  he  is  a  kid?  Then, 
some  day  you  could  pay  him  back.  Meanwhile 
you'd  be  a-keepin'  him,  an'  a-schoolin'  him;  an' 
that's  somethin'." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  nodded  Simeon  Holly 
thoughtfully,  his  eyes  going  from  the  gold  to 
David's  face.  Then,  aloud,  yet  as  if  to  himself, 
he  breathed:  "Boy,  boy,  who  was  your  father? 
How  came  he  by  all  that  gold  —  and  he  —  a 
tramp!" 

David  drew  himself  suddenly  erect.  His  eyes 
flashed. 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  But  I  do  know  this:  he 
didn'tstea/it!" 

Across  the  table  Mrs.  Holly  drew  a  quick 
breath,  but  she  did  not  speak  —  save  with  her 

238 


DAVID  TO  THE  RESCUE 

pleading  eyes.  Mrs.  Holly  seldom  spoke  — 
save  with  her  eyes  —  when  her  husband  was 
solving  a  knotty  problem.  She  was  dumfounded 
now  that  he  should  listen  so  patiently  to  the 
man,  Larson,  —  though  she  was  not  more  sur 
prised  than  was  Larson  himself.  For  both  of 
them,  however,  there  came  at  this  moment  a 
still  greater  surprise.  Simeon  Holly  leaned  for 
ward  suddenly,  the  stern  lines  quite  gone  from 
his  lips,  and  his  face  working  with  emotion  as 
he  drew  David  toward  him. 

"You're  a  good  son,  boy,  —  a  good  loyal 
son;  and — and  I  wish  you  were  mine!  I  be 
lieve  you.  He  did  n't  steal  it,  and  I  won't  steal 
it,  either.  But  I  will  use  it,  since  you  are  so 
good  as  to  offer  it.  But  it  shall  be  a  loan,  David, 
and  some  day,  God  helping  me,  you  shall  have 
it  back.  Meanwhile,  you're  my  boy,  David,  — 
my  boy!" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  rejoiced  David.  "And, 
really,  you  know,  being  wanted  like  that  is 
better  than  the  start  would  be,  is  n't  it?" 

"Better  than  —  what?" 

David  shifted  his  position.  He  had  not  meant 
to  say  just  that. 

"N — nothing/'  he  stammered,  looking  about 
289 


JUST  DAVID 

for  a  means  of  quick  escape.  "I  —  I  was  just 
talking,"  he  finished.  And  he  was  immeasur 
ably  relieved  to  find  that  Mr.  Holly  did  not 
press  the  matter  further. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


JIN  spite  of  the  exaltation  of  renunciation,  and 
in  spite  of  the  joy  of  being  newly  and  especially 
"wanted,"  those  early  September  days  were 
sometimes  hard  for  David.  Not  until  he  had 
relinquished  all  hope  of  his  "start"  did  he  fully 
realize  what  that  hope  had  meant  to  him. 

There  were  times,  to  be  sure,  when  there  was 
nothing  but  rejoicing  within  him  that  he  was 
able  thus  to  aid  the  Hollys.  There  were  other 
times  when  there  was  nothing  but  the  sore 
heartache  because  of  the  great  work  out  in  the 
beautiful  world  that  could  now  never  be  done; 
and  because  of  the  unlovely  work  at  hand  that 
must  be  done.  To  tell  the  truth,  indeed,  David's 
entire  conception  of  life  had  become  suddenly 
a  chaos  of  puzzling  contradictions. 
.  To  Mr.  Jack,  one  day,  David  went  with  his 
*  perplexities.  Not  that  he  told  him  of  the  gold- 
pieces  and  of  the  unexpected  use  to  which  they 
had  been  put  —  indeed,  no.  David  had  made 
up  his  mind  never,  if  he  could  help  himself,  to 


JUST    DAVID 

mention  those  gold-pieces  to  any  one  who  did 
not  already  know  of  them.  They  meant  ques 
tions,  and  the  questions,  explanations.  And  he 
had  had  enough  of  both  on  that  particular  sub 
ject.  But  to  Mr.  Jack  he  said  one  day,  when 
they  were  alone  together :  — 

"Mr.  Jack,  how  many  folks  have  you  got 
inside  of  your  head  ?" 

"Eh  — what,  David?" 

David  repeated  his  question  and  attached  an 
explanation. 

"  I  mean,  the  folks  that  —  that  make  you  do 
things." 

Mr.  Jack  laughed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  some  people  make 
claims  to  quite  a  number,  and  perhaps  almost 
every  one  owns  to  a  Dr.  Jekyll  and  a  Mr.  Hyde." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"Never  mind,  David.  I  don't  think  you 
know  the  gentlemen,  anyhow.  They're  only 
something  like  the  little  girl  with  a  curl.  One 
Is  very,  very  good,  indeed,  and  the  other  is 
horrid." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  them;  they're  the  ones 
that  come  to  me,"  returned  David,  with  a  sigh. 
"I've  had  them  a  lot,  lately." 

242 


THE  UNBEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

Mr.  Jack  stared. 

"Oh,  have  you?" 

"Yes;  and  that's  what's  the  trouble.  How 
can  you  drive  them  off  —  the  one  that  is  bad* 
I  mean?" 

"Well,  really,"  confessed  Mr.  Jack,  "  I  'm  not 
sure  I  can  tell.  You  see  —  the  gentlemen  visit 
me  sometimes." 

"Oh,  do  they?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  so  glad  —  that  is,  I  mean,"  amended 
David,  in  answer  to  Mr.  Jack's  uplifted  eye 
brows,  "I'm  glad  that  you  understand  what 
I  'm  talking  about.  You  see,  I  tried  Perry  Lar 
son  last  night  on  it,  to  get  him  to  tell  me  what 
to  do.  But  he  only  stared  and  laughed.  He 
did  n't  know  the  names  of  'em,  anyhow,  as  you 
do,  and  at  last  he  got  really  almost  angry  and 
said  I  made  him  feel  so  'buggy'  and  *  creepy* 
that  he  would  n't  dare  look  at  himself  in  the 
glass  if  I  kept  on,  for  fear  some  one  he'd  never 
known  was  there  should  jump  out  at  him." 

Mr.  Jack  chuckled. 

"Well,  I  suspect,  David,  that  Perry  knew 
one  of  your  gentlemen  by  the  name  of  'con 
science,'  perhaps;  and  I  also  suspect  that  maybe 

243 


JUST    DAVID 

conscience  does  pretty  nearly  fill  the  bill,  and 
that  you've  been  having  a  bout  with  that. 
Eh?  Now,  what  is  the  trouble?  Tell  me  about 
it." 

David  stirred  uneasily.  Instead  of  answer 
ing,  he  asked  another  question. 

"Mr.  Jack,  it  is  a  beautiful  world,  is  n't  it?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer;  then  a 
low  voice  replied :  — 

"Your  father  said  it  was,  David." 

Again  David  moved  restlessly. 

"Yes;  but  father  was  on  the  mountain.  And 
down  here  —  well,  down  here  there  are  lots  of 
things  that  I  don't  believe  he  knew  about." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"Why,  lots  of  things  —  too  many  to  tell. 
Of  course  there  are  things  like  catching  fish, 
and  killing  birds  and  squirrels  and  other  things 
to  eat,  and  plaguing  cats  and  dogs.  Father 
never  would  have  called  those  beautiful.  Then 
there  are  others  like  little  Jimmy  Clark  who1 
can't  walk,  and  the  man  at  the  Marstons'  who's 
sick,  and  Joe  Glaspell  who  is  blind.  Then 
there  are  still  different  ones  like  Mr.  Holly's 
little  boy.  Perry  says  he  ran  away  years  and 
years  ago,  and  made  his  people  very  unhappy. 

244 


THE  UNBEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

Father  would  n't  call  that  a  beautiful  woritf. 
would  he?  And  how  can  people  like  that  always 
play  in  tune?  And  there  are  the  Princess  and 
the  Pauper  that  you  told  about." 

"Oh,  the  story?" 

"Yes;  and  people  like  them  can't  be  happy 
and  think  the  world  is  beautiful,  of  course." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  they  didn't  end  right.  They 
did  n't  get  married  and  live  happy  ever  after, 
you  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I'd  worry  about  that, 
David,  —  at  least,  not  about  the  Princess.  I 
fancy  the  world  was  very  beautiful  to  her,  all 
right.  The  Pauper  —  well,  perhaps  he  was  n't 
very  happy.  But,  after  all,  David,  you  know 
happiness  is  something  inside  of  yourself.  Per 
haps  half  of  these  people  are  happy,  in  their 
way." 

"There!  and  that's  another  thing,"  sighed 
David.  "You  see,  I  found  that  out  —  that  it 
was  inside  of  yourself  —  quite  a  while  ago,  and 
I  told  the  Lady  of  the  Roses.  But  now  I  —  7. 
can't  make  it  work  myself." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Well,  you  see  then  something  was  going  to 
245 


JUST  DAVID 

happen  —  something  that  I  liked;  and  I  found 
that  just  thinking  of  it  made  it  so  that  I  did  n't 
mind  raking  or  hoeing,  or  anything  like  that; 
and  I  told  the  Lady  of  the  Roses.  And  I  told 
her  that  even  if  it  was  n't  going  to  happen  she 
could  think  it  was  going  to,  and  that  that  would 
be  just  the  same,  because  't  was  the  thinking 
that  made  my  hours  sunny  ones.  It  was  n't 
the  doing  at  all.  I  said  I  knew  because  I 
had  n't  done  it  yet.  See?" 

"I  — think  so,  David." 

"Well,  I've  found  out  that  it  is  n't  the  same 
at  all;  for  now  that  I  know  that  this  beautiful 
thing  is  n't  ever  going  to  happen  to  me,  I  can 
think  and  think  all  day,  and  it  does  n't  do  a 
mite  of  good.  The  sun  is  just  as  hot,  and  my 
back  aches  just  as  hard,  and  the  field  is  just  as 
big  and  endless  as  it  used  to  be  when  I  had  to 
call  it  that  those  hours  did  n't  count.  Now, 
what  is  the  matter?" 

Mr.  Jack  laughed,  but  he  shook  his  head  a 
little  sadly. 

"You're  getting  into  too  deep  waters  for  me, 
David.  I  suspect  you're  floundering  in  a  sea 
that  has  upset  the  boats  of  sages  since  the  world 
began.  But  what  is  it  that  was  so  nice,  and  that 

246 


THE  UNBEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

js  n't  going  to  happen?  Perhaps  I  might  help 
on  that." 

"No,  you  couldn't,"  frowned  David;  "and 
there  could  n't  anybody,  either,  you  see,  be- , 
cause  I  would  n't  go  back  now  and  let  it  happen, ' 
anyhow,  as  long  as  I  know  what  I  do.  Why,  if 
I  did,  there  would  n't  be  any  hours  that  were 
sunny  then  —  not  even  the  ones  after  four 
o'clock;  I  —  I  'd  feel  so  mean !  But  what  I  don't 
see  is  just  how  I  can  fix  it  up  with  the  Lady  of 
the  Roses." 

"What  has  she  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why,  at  the  very  first,  when  she  said  she 
did  n't  have  any  sunshiny  hours,  I  told  her  — '* 

"When  she  said  what?"  interposed  Mr.  Jack, 
coming  suddenly  erect  in  his  chair. 

"That  she  did  n't  have  any  hours  to  count, 
you  know." 

"To  —  count?" 

"Yes;  it  was  the  sundial.  Did  n't  I  tell  you? 
Yes,  I  know  I  did  —  about  the  words  on  it  — 
not  counting  any  hours  that  were  n't  sunny, 
you  know.  And  she  said  she  would  n't  have 
any  hours  to  count;  that  the  sun  never  shone 
for  her." 

"Why,  David,"  demurred  Mr.  Jack  in  a 
247 


JUST   DAVID 

voice  that  shook  a  little,  "are  you  sure?  Did 
she  say  just  that?  You  —  you  must  be  mis 
taken —  when  she  has  —  has  everything  to 
make  her  happy." 

"  I  was  n't,  because  I  said  that  same  thing  to 
her  myself  —  afterwards.  And  then  I  told  her 
—  when  I  found  out  myself,  you  know  —  about 
its  being  what  was  inside  of  you,  after  all,  that 
counted;  and  then  is  when  I  asked  her  if  she 
could  n't  think  of  something  nice  that  was  going 
to  happen  to  her  sometime." 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  shook  her  head,  and  said  'No.'  Then 
she  looked  away,  and  her  eyes  got  soft  and  dark 
like  little  pools  in  the  brooks  where  the  w^ater 
stops  to  rest.  And  she  said  she  had  hoped  once 
that  this  something  would  happen;  but  that  it 
had  n't,  and  that  it  would  take  something 
more  than  thinking  to  bring  it.  And  I  know 
now  what  she  meant,  because  thinking  is  n't  all 
that  counts,  is  it?" 

Mr.  Jack  did  not  answer.  He  had  risen  tc 
his  feet,  and  was  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  veranda.  Once  or  twice  he  turned  his  eyes 
toward  the  towers  of  Sunnycrest,  and  David 
noticed  that  there  was  a  new  look  on  his  face. 

248 


Very  soon,  however,  the  old  tiredness  came 
back  to  his  eyes,  and  he  dropped  into  his  seat 
again,  muttering  "Fool!  of  course  it  could  n't 
be  — that!" 

"Be  what?"  asked  David. 

Mr.  Jack  started. 

"Er  —  nothing;  nothing  that  you  would 
understand,  David.  Go  on  —  with  what  you 
were  saying." 

"There  is  n't  any  more.  It's  all  done.  It's 
only  that  I'm  wondering  how  I'm  going  to 
learn  here  that  it's  a  beautiful  world,  so  that  I 
can  —  tell  father." 

Mr.  Jack  roused  himself.  He  had  the  air  of 
a  man  who  determinedly  throws  to  one  side  a 
heavy  burden. 

"Well,  David,"  he  smiled,  "as  I  said  before, 
you  are  still  out  on  that  sea  where  there  are  so 
many  little  upturned  boats.  There  might  be  a 
good  many  ways  of  answering  that  question." 

"Mr.  Holly  says,"  mused  the  boy,  aloud,  a 
little  gloomily,  "that  it  does  n't  make  any  dif 
ference  whether  we  find  things  beautiful  or  not; 
that  we 're  here  to  do  something  serious  in  the 
world." 

"That  is  about  what  I  should  have  expected 
249 


JUST  DAVID 

of  Mr,  Holly."  retorted  Mr.  Jack  grimly.  "He 
acts  it  —  ana  looks  it.  But  —  I  don't  believe 
you  are  going  to  tell  your  father  just  that." 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  believe  I  am,"  accorded 
David  soberly. 

"I  have  an  idea  that  you're  going  to  find 
that  answer  just  where  your  father  said  you 
would  —  in  your  violin.  See  if  you  don't. 
Things  that  aren't  beautiful  you'll  make 
beautiful  —  because  we  find  what  we  are  look 
ing  for,  and  you're  looking  for  beautiful  things. 
After  all,  boy,  if  we  march  straight  ahead,  chin 
up,  and  sing  our  own  little  song  with  all  our 
might  and  main,  we  shan't  come  so  far  amiss 
from  the  goal,  I'm  thinking.  There!  that's 
preaching,  and  I  did  n't  mean  to  preach;  but  — 
well,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  was  meant  for  my 
self,  for  —  I  'm  hunting  for  the  beautiful  world, 
too." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know,"  returned  David  fervently. 
And  again  Mr.  Jack,  looking  into  the  sympa 
thetic,  glowing  dark  eyes,  wondered  if,  after  alls 
David  really  could  —  know. 

Even  yet  Mr.  Jack  was  not  used  to  David; 
there  were  "so  many  of  him,"  he  told  himself. 
There  were  the  boy,  the  artist,  and  a  third  per- 

260 


THE  UNBEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

sonality  so  evanescent  that  it  defied  being 
named.  The  boy  was  jolly,  impetuous,  confi 
dential,  and  delightful  —  plainly  reveling  in  all 
manner  of  fun  and  frolic.  The  artist  was  noth 
ing  but  a  bunch  of  nervous  alertness,  ready  to 
find  melody  and  rhythm  in  every  passing 
thought  or  flying  cloud.  The  third  —  that 
baffling  third  that  defied  the  naming  —  was  a 
dreamy,  visionary,  untouchable  creature  who 
floated  so  far  above  one's  head  that  one's  hand 
could  D  iver  pull  him  down  to  get  a  good  square 
chance  to  see  what  he  did  look  like.  All  this 
thought  Mr.  Jack  as  he  gazed  into  David's 
luminous  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XX 

UNFAMTLLAB  WAT 

mber  David  entered  the  vfiage  school. 
School  and  David  dM  not  jrysJniUte  at  once. 
Voy  confidently  the  teathei  set  to  wort:  ID 

#-ade  her  new  pupil;  but  she  was  n.>t  so  confi 
dent  when  she  foond  that  while  in  Latin  he 
was  perilously  near  herself  and  in  Preach  — 
which  she  was  not  required  to  leach  —  disas 
trously  beyond  her!),  in  United  Stales  lustoiy 
he  knew  only  the  barest  imlaa*  n  off  certain 
portions,  and  rornM  not  name  a  single  battle 
in  any  of  its  wars.  In  most  studies  he  was  far 
beyood  ixiys  «f  iiis  ovn  age,  yet  at  every  tan 
she  encountered  these  jimliHg  spots  off  dis 
crepancy,  which  rendered  grading  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  oat  of  the 


David's  meth 
CMJhar,  L^:.  >.-.-.    :..::   ii>:\-.--:-i.r^r:^.    }-li   :-.-. 

. 


iiv-:  i.  rjif  ir;^  bis  nal  wi  HMWI  b  my  part 

of  :,b;  -.-.::.  ;_:•  ;.;.-:   .. :.  :v.   >..:.-/:.  :_:::     I:.  :~vf.. 
of  coorse,  afi  this  was  changed;  bat  it  was 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY 

several  days  before  the  boy  learned  so  to  con 
duct  himself  that  he  did  not  shatter  to  atoms 
the  peace  and  propriety  of  the  schoolroom. 

Outside  of  school  David  had  little  work  to 
do  now,  though  there  were  still  left  a  few  light 
tasks  about  the  house.  Home  life  at  the  Holly 
farmhouse  was  the  same  for  David,  yet  with 
a  difference  —  the  difference  that  comes  from 
being  really  wanted  instead  of  being  merely  du 
tifully  kept.  There  were  other  differences,  too, 
subtle  differences  that  did  not  show,  perhaps, 
but  that  still  were  there. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holly,  more  than  ever  now, 
were  learning  to  look  at  the  world  through 
David's  eyes.  One  day —  one  wonderful  day — 
they  even  went  to  walk  in  the  woods  with  the 
boy;  and  whenever  before  had  Simeon  Holly 
left  his  work  for  so  frivolous  a  thing  as  a  walk 
in  the  woods ! 

It  was  not  accomplished,  however,  without 
a  struggle,  as  David  could  have  told.  The  day 
was  a  Saturday,  clear,  crisp,  and  beautiful,  with 
a  promise  of  October  in  the  air;  and  David 
fairly  tingled  to  be  free  and  away.  Mrs.  Holly 
was  baking  —  and  the  birds  sang  unheard  out 
side  her  pantry  window.  Mr.  Holly  was  digging 

253 


JUST  DAVID 

potatoes  —  and  the  clouds  sailed  unnoticed 
above  his  head. 

All  the  morning  David  urged  and  begged.  If 
for  once,  just  this  once,  they  would  leave  every 
thing  and  come,  they  would  not  regret  it,  he 
was  sure.  But  they  shook  their  heads  and  said, 
"No,  no,  impossible!"  In  the  afternoon  the 
pies  were  done  and  the  potatoes  dug,  and  David 
urged  and  pleaded  again.  If  once,  only  this 
once,  they  would  go  to  walk  with  him  in  the 
woods,  he  would  be  so  happy,  so  very  happy ! 
And  to  please  the  boy  —  they  went. 

It  was  a  curious  walk.  Ellen  Holly  trod  softly, 
with  timid  feet.  She  threw  hurried,  frightened 
glances  from  side  to  side.  It  was  plain  that  Ellen 
Holly  did  not  know  how  to  play.  Simeon  Holly 
stalked  at  her  elbow,  stern,  silent,  and  preoc 
cupied.  It  was  plain  that  Simeon  Holly  not 
only  did  not  know  how  to  play,  but  did  not 
even  care  to  find  out. 

The  boy  tripped  ahead  and  talked.  He  had 
the  air  of  a  monarch  displaying  his  kingdom. 
On  one  side  was  a  bit  of  moss  worthy  of  the 
closest  attention;  on  another,  a  vine  that  car 
ried  allurement  in  every  tendril.  Here  was  a 
flower  that  was  like  a  story  for  interest,  and 

254 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY 

there  was  a  bush  that  bore  a  secret  worth  the 
telling.  Even  Simeon  Holly  glowed  into  a 
semblance  of  life  when  David  had  unerringly 
picked  out  and  called  by  name  the  spruce,  and 
fir,  and  pine,  and  larch,  and  then,  in  answer 
to  Mrs.  Holly's  murmured:  "But,  David, 
where's  the  difference?  They  look  so  much 
alike!"  he  had  said:- 

"Oh,  but  they  are  n't,  you  know.  Just  see 
how  much  more  pointed  at  the  top  that  fir  is 
than  that  spruce  back  there;  and  the  branches 
grow  straight  out,  too,  like  arms,  and  they're 
all  smooth  and  tapering  at  the  ends  like  a 
pussy-cat's  tail.  But  the  spruce  back  there  - 
its  branches  turned  down  and  out  —  did  n't 
you  notice?  —  and  they're  all  bushy  at  the 
ends  like  a  squirrel's  tail.  Oh,  they're  lots 
different !  That's  a  larch  'way  ahead  —  that 
one  with  the  branches  all  scraggly  and  close 
down  to  the  ground.  I  could  start  to  climb  that 
easy;  but  I  could  n't  that  pine  over  there. 
See,  it's  'way  up,  up,  before  there's  a  place  for 
your  foot!  But  I  love  pines.  Up  there  on  the 
mountains  where  I  lived,  the  pines  were  so  tall 
that  it  seemed  as  if  God  used  them  sometimes 
to  hold  up  the  sky." 

255 


JUST  DAVID 

And  Simeon  Holly  heard,  and  said  nothing; 
and  that  he  did  say  nothing  —  especially  noth 
ing  in  answer  to  David's  confident  assertions 
concerning  celestial  and  terrestrial  architecture 
-  only  goes  to  show  how  well,  indeed,  the  man 
was  learning  to  look  at  the  world  through 
David's  eyes. 

Nor  were  these  all  of  David's  friends  to  whom 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holly  were  introduced  on  that 
memorable  walk.  There  were  the  birds,  and  the 
squirrels,  and,  in  fact,  everything  that  had  Me. 
And  each  one  he  greeted  joyously  by  name, 
as  he  would  greet  a  friend  whose  home  and 
habits  he  knew.  Here  was  a  wonderful  wood 
pecker,  there  was  a  beautiful  blue  jay.  Aheadx 
that  brilliant  bit  of  color  that  flashed  across 
their  path  was  a  tanager.  Once,  far  up  in  the 
sky,  as  they  crossed  an  open  space,  David  spied 
a  long  black  streak  moving  southward. 

"Oh,  see!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  crows!  See 
them?  -  -  'way  up  there?  Would  n't  it  be  fun 
if  we  could  do  that,  and  fly  hundreds  and  hun 
dreds  of  miles,  maybe  a  thousand?" 

"Oh,  David,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Holly,  un 
believingly. 

"But  they  do!  These  look  as  if  they'd 
266 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY 

started  on  their  winter  journey  South,  too;  but 
if  they  have,  they  're  early.  Most  of  them  don't 
go  till  October.  They  come  back  in  March,  you 
know.  Though  I've  had  them,  on  the  moun 
tain,  that  stayed  all  the  year  with  me." 

"My!  but  I  love  to  watch  them  go,"  mur 
mured  David,  his  eyes  following  the  rapidly 
disappearing  black  line.  "Lots  of  birds  you  can't 
see,  you  know,  when  they  start  for  the  South. 
They  fly  at  night  —  the  woodpeckers  and  ori 
oles  and  cuckoos,  and  lots  of  others.  They're 
afraid,  I  guess,  don't  you?  But  I  've  seen  them. 
I  've  watched  them.  They  tell  each  other  when 
they're  going  to  start." 

"Oh,  David,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Holly, 
again,  ner  eyes  reproving,  but  plainly  en 
thralled. 

"But  they  do  tell  each  other,"  claimed  the 
boy,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "They  must!  For, 
all  of  a  sudden,  some  night,  you'll  hear  the 
signal,  and  then  they'll  begin  to  gather  from  all 
directions.  I've  seen  them.  Then,  suddenly, 
they  're  all  up  and  off  to  the  South  —  not  in 
one  big  flock,  but  broken  up  into  little  flocks, 
following  one  after  another,  with  such  a  beau 
tiful  whir  of  wings.  Oof  —  oof —  OOF!  —  and 


JUST  DAVID 

they're  gone!  And  I  don't  see  them  again  till 
next  year.  But  you've  seen  the  swallows, 
have  n't  you?  They  go  in  the  daytime,  and 
they're  the  easiest  to  tell  of  any  of  them.  They 
fly  so  swift  and  straight.  Have  n't  you  seen  the 
swallows  go?" 

"Why,  I  — I  don't  know,  David,"  mur 
mured  Mrs.  Holly,  with  a  helpless  glance  at 
her  husband  stalking  on  ahead.  "I  —  I  did  n't 
know  there  were  such  things  to  —  to  know." 

There  was  more,  much  more,  that  David 
said  before  the  walk  came  to  an  end.  And 
though,  when  it  did  end,  neither  Simeon  Holly 
nor  his  wife  said  a  word  of  its  having  been  a 
pleasure  or  a  profit,  there  was  yet  on  their  faces 
something  of  the  peace  and  rest  and  quietness 
that  belonged  to  the  woods  they  had  left. 

It  was  a  beautiful  month  —  that  September, 
and  David  made  the  most  of  it.  Out  of  school 
meant  out  of  doors  for  him.  He  saw  Mr.  Jack 
and  Jill  often.  He  spent  much  time,  too,  with 
the  Lady  of  the  Roses.  She  was  still  the  Lady 
of  the  Roses  to  David,  though  in  the  garden 
now  were  the  purple  and  scarlet  and  yellow  of 
the  asters,  salvia,  and  golden  glow,  instead  of 
the  blush  and  perfume  of  the  roses. 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY      . 

David  was  very  much  at  home  at  Sunny- 
crest.  He  was  welcome,  he  knew,  to  go  where 
he  pleased.  Even  the  servants  were  kiid  to 
him,  as  well  as  was  the  elderly  cousin  whc  n  he 
seldom  saw,  but  who,  he  knew,  lived  there  as 
company  for  his  Lady  of  the  Roses. 

Perhaps  best,  next  to  the  garden,  David 
loved  the  tower  room;  possibly  because  Miss 
Holbrook  herself  so  often  suggested  that  they 
go  there.  And  it  was  there  that  they  were  when 
he  said,  dreamily,  one  day :  — 

"I  like  this  place  —  up  here  so  high,  only 
sometimes  it  does  make  me  think  of  that  Prin 
cess,  because  it  was  in  a  tower  like  this  that  she 
was,  you  know." 

"Fairy  stories,  David?"  asked  Miss  Hol 
brook  lightly. 

"No,  not  exactly,  though  there  was  a  Prin 
cess  in  it.  Mr.  Jack  told  it."  David's  eyes  were 
still  out  of  the  window. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jack!  And  does  Mr.  Jack  often 
tell  you  stories?" 

"No.  He  never  told  only  this  one  —  and 
maybe  that's  why  I  remember  it  so." 

"Well,  and  what  did  the  Princess  do?"  Miss 
Holbrook's  voice  was  still  light,  still  carelessly 


JUST  DAVID 

preoccupied.  Her  attention,  plainly,  was  given 
to  the  sewing  in  her  hand. 

"She  didn't  do,  and  that's  what  was  the 
trouble,"  sighed  David.  "She  didn't  wave, 
you  know." 

The  needle  in  Miss  Holbrook's  fingers  stop 
ped  short  in  mid-air,  the  thread  half-drawn. 

" Did  n't  —  wave!"  she  stammered.  "What 
do  you  —  mean?" 

"Nothing,"  laughed  the  boy,  turning  away 
from  the  window.  "I  forgot  that  you  did  n't 
know  the  story." 

"But  maybe  I  do  —  that  is  —  what  was  the 
story?"  asked  Miss  Holbrook,  wetting  her  lips 
as  if  they  had  grown  suddenly  very  dry. 

"  Oh,  do  you?  I  wonder  now !  It  was  n't 
'The  Prince  and  the  Pauper,'  but  the  Princess 
and  the  Pauper,"  cited  David;  "and  they  used 
to  wave  signals,  and  answer  with  flags.  Do  you 
Know  the  story?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Miss  Holbrook  was 
putting  away  her  work,  hurriedly,  and  with 
hands  that  shook.  David  noticed  that  she  even 
pricked  herself  in  her  anxiety  to  get  the  needle 
tucked  away.  Then  she  drew  him  to  a  low 
stool  at  her  side. 

260 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY 

"David,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  story, 
please,"  she  said,  "just  as  Mr.  Jack  told  it  to 
you.  Now,  be  careful  and  put  it  all  in,  because 
I  —  I  want  to  hear  it,"  she  finished,  with  an  odd 
little  laugh  that  seemed  to  bring  two  bright  red 
spots  to  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  do  you  want  to  hear  it?  Then  I  will  tell 
it,"  cried  David  joyfully.  To  David,  almost  as 
delightful  as  to  hear  a  story  was  to  tell  one 
himself.  "You  see,  first-  '  And  he  plunged 
headlong  into  the  introduction. 

David  knew  it  well  —  that  story;  and  there 
was,  perhaps,  little  that  he  forgot.  It  might 
not  have  been  always  told  in  Mr.  Jack's  lan 
guage;  but  his  meaning  was  there,  and  very  in 
tently  Miss  Holbrook  listened  while  David  told 
of  the  boy  and  the  girl,  the  wavings,  and  the 
flags  that  were  blue,  black,  and  red.  She  laughed 
once,  —  that  was  at  the  little  joke  with  the 
bells  that  the  girl  played,  —  but  she  did  not 
speak  until  sometime  later  when  David  was 
telling  of  the  first  home-coming  of  the  Princess, 
and  of  the  time  when  the  boy  on  his  tiny  piazza 
watched  and  watched  in  vain  for  a  waving 
white  signal  from  the  tower. 

"Do  \you  mean  to  say,"  interposed  Miss 
261 


JUST  DAVID 

Holbrook  then,  almost  starting  to  her  feet, 
"that  that  boy  expected  -  "  She  stopped  sud 
denly,  and  fell  back  in  her  chair.  The  two  red 
spots  on  her  cheeks  had  become  a  rosy  glow 
now,  all  over  her  face. 

"Expected  what?"  asked  David. 

"N  —  nothing.  Go  on.  I  was  so  —  so  in 
terested,"  explained  Miss  Holbrook  faintly. 
"Go  on." 

And  David  did  go  on;  nor  did  the  story  lose 
by  his  telling.  It  gained,  indeed,  something,  for 
now  it  had  woven  through  it  the  very  strong 
sympathy  of  a  boy  who  loved  the  Pauper  for 
his  sorrow  and  hated  the  Princess  for  causing 
that  sorrow. 

"And  so,"  he  concluded  mournfully,  "you 
see  it  is  n't  a  very  nice  story,  after  all,  for  it 
did  n't  end  well  a  bit.  They  ought  to  have  got 
married  and  lived  happy  ever  after.  But  they 
did  n't." 

Miss  Holbrook  drew  in  her  breath  a  little  un 
certainly,  and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat.  Her 
face  now,  instead  of  being  red,  was  very  white. 

"But,  David,"  she  faltered,  after  a  moment, 
"perhaps  he —  the  —  Pauper  —  did  not — not 
love  the  Princess  any  longer.'* 

262 


,  v 


'THEN,  WHY  DID  N'T  HE  GO  TO  HER  AND-AND-TELL  HER?" 


THE  UNFAMILIAR  WAY 

"Mr.  Jack  said  that  he  did." 

The  white  face  went  suddenly  pink  again. 

"Then,  why  did  n't  he  go  to  her  and  —  and 
—  tell  her?" 

David  lifted  his  chin.  With  all  his  dignity 
he  answered,  and  his  words  and  accent  were 
Mr.  Jack's. 

"Paupers  don't  go  to  Princesses,  and  say, 
*  I  love  you.'" 

"But  perhaps  if  they  did  —  that  is  —  if — " 
Miss  Holbrook  bit  her  lips  and  did  not  finish 
her  sentence.  She  did  not,  indeed,  say  any 
thing  more  for  a  long  time.  But  she  had  not 
forgotten  the  story.  David  knew  that,  be 
cause  later  she  began  to  question  him  carefully 
about  many  little  points  —  points  that  he  was 
very  sure  he  had  already  made  quite  plain. 
She  talked  about  it,  indeed,  until  he  wondered 
if  perhaps  she  were  going  to  tell  it  to  some  one 
else  sometime.  He  asked  her  if  she  were;  but 
she  only  shook  her  head.  And  after  that  she 
did  not  question  him  any  more.  And  a  little 
later  David  wrent  home. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HEAVY  HEARTS 

'FoR  a  week  David  had  not  been  near  the  House 
that  Jack  Built,  and  that,  too,  when  Jill  had 
been  confined  within  doors  for  several  days 
with  a  cold.  Jill,  indeed,  was  inclined  to  be 
grieved  at  this  apparent  lack  of  interest  on  the 
part  of  her  favorite  playfellow;  but  upon  her 
return  from  her  first  day  of  school,  after  her 
recovery,  she  met  her  brother  with  startled 
eyes. 

"Jack,  it  hasn't  been  David's  fault  at  all," 
she  cried  remorsefully.  "He's  sick." 

"Sick!" 

"Yes;  awfully  sick.  They've  had  to  send 
away  for  doctors  and  everything." 

"Why,  Jill,  are  you  sure?  Where  did  you 
hear  this?" 

"At  school  to-day.  Every  one  was  talking 
about  it." 

"But  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Fever  —  some  sort.  Some  say  it's  typhoid, 
and  some  scarlet,  and  some  say  another  kind 

264 


HEAVY  HEARTS 

that  I  can't  remember;  but  everybody  says  he's 
awfully  sick.  He  got  it  down  to  GlaspelFs,  some 
say,  —  and  some  say  he  did  n't.  But,  anyhow, 
Betty  Glaspell  has  been  sick  with  something, 
and  they  have  n't  let  folks  in  there  this  week," 
finished  Jill,  her  eyes  big  with  terror. 

"The  Glaspells?  But  what  was  David  doing 
down  there?" 

"Why,  you  know,  —  he  told  us  once,  — 
teaching  Joe  to  play.  He 's  been  there  lots.  Joe 
is  blind,  you  know,  and  can't  see,  but  he  just 
loves  music,  and  was  crazy  over  David's  violin; 
so  David  took  down  his  other  one  —  the  one 
that  was  his  father's,  you  know  —  and  showed 
him  how  to  pick  out  little  tunes,  just  to  take 
up  his  time  so  he  would  n't  mind  so  much  that 
he  could  n't  see.  Now,  Jack,  was  n't  that  just 
like  David?  Jack,  I  can't  have  anything  hap 
pen  to  David!" 

"No,  dear,  no;  of  course  not!  I'm  afraid  we 
can't  any  of  us,  for  that  matter,"  sighed  Jack, 
his  forehead  drawn  into  anxious  lines.  "  I  '11  go 
down  to  the  Hollys',  Jill,  the  first  thing  to 
morrow  morning,  and  see  how  he  is  and  if 
there's  anything  we  can  do.  Meanwhile,  don't 
take  it  too  much  to  heart,  dear.  It  may  not  be 

265 


half  so  bad  as  you  think.  School-children  al 
ways  get  things  like  that  exaggerated,  you  must 
remember,"  he  finished,  speaking  with  a  light 
ness  that  he  did  not  feel. 

To  himself  the  man  owned  that  he  was 
troubled,  seriously  troubled.  He  had  to  admit 
that  Jill's  story  bore  the  earmarks  of  truth; 
and  overwhelmingly  he  realized  now  just  how 
big  a  place  this  somewhat  puzzling  small  boy 
had  come  to  fill  in  his  own  neart.  He  did  not 
need  Jill's  anxious  "Now,  hurry,  Jack,"  the 
next  morning  to  start  him  off  in  all  haste  for 
the  Holly  farmhouse.  A  dozen  rods  from  the 
driveway  he  met  Perry  Larson  and  stopped  him 
abruptly. 

"Good  morning,  Larson;  I  hope  this  isn't 
true  —  what  I  hear  —  that  David  is  very  ill." 

Larson  pulled  off  his  hat  and  with  his  free 
hand  sought  the  one  particular  spot  on  his 
head  to  which  he  always  appealed  when  he  was 
very  much  troubled. 

"Well,  yes,  sir,  I'm  afraid  'tis,  Mr.  Jack  — 
er  —  Mr.  Gurnsey,  I  mean.  He  is  tumble  sick, 
poor  little  chap,  an'  it's  too  bad  —  that's  what 
it  is  — too  bad!" 

"Oh,  I  'm  sorry!  I  hoped  the  report  was 
266 


HEAVY  HEARTS 

exaggerated.  I  came  down  to  see  if  —  if  there 
was  n't  something  I  could  do." 

"Well,  'course  you  can  ask  —  there  ain't  no 
law  ag'in'  that;  an'  ye  need  n't  be  afraid, 
neither.  The  report  has  got  'round  that  it's 
ketchin'  —  what  he's  got,  and  that  he  got  it 
down  to  the  Glaspells' ;  but 't  ain't  so.  The  doc 
tor  says  he  did  n't  ketch  no  thin',  an'  he  can't 
give  nothin'.  It's  his  head  an'  brain  that  ain't 
right,  an'  he's  got  a  mighty  bad  fever.  He's 
been  kind  of  flighty  an'  nervous,  anyhow, 
lately. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  'course  you  can  ask,  but 
I'm  thinkin'  there  won't  be  nothin'  you  can 
do  ter  help.  Ev'rythin'  that  can  be  done  is 
bein'  done.  In  fact,  there  ain't  much  of  any- 
thin'  else  that  is  bein'  done  down  there  jest 
now  but  'tendin'  ter  him.  They've  got  one  o' 
them  'ere  edyercated  nurses  from  the  Junction 
—  what  wears  caps,  ye  know,  an'  makes  yer  feel 
as  if  they  knew  it  all,  an'  you  did  n't  know 
nothin'.  An'  then  there's  Mr.  an'  Mis'  Holly 
besides.  If  they  had  their  way,  there  would  n't 
neither  of  'em  let  him  out  o'  their  sight  fur  a 
minute,  they're  that  cut  up  about  it." 

"I  fancy  they  think  a  good  deal  of  the  boy 
,  267 


JUST  DAVID 

—  as  we  all  do,"  murmured  the  younger  man, 
a  little  unsteadily. 

Larson  wrinkled  his  forehead  in  deep  thought. 

"Yes;  an*  that's  what  beats  me,"  he  an 
swered  slowly;  "'bout  him,  —  Mr.  Holly,  I 
mean.  'Course  we'd  'a'  expected  it  of  her  — 
losin'  her  own  boy  as  she  did,  an'  bein'  jest 
naturally  so  sweet  an'  lovin'-hearted.  But  him 

—  that's  diff'rent.  Now,  you  know  jest  as  well 
as  I  do  what  Mr.  Holly  is  —  every  one  does, 
so  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  sland'rous.  He 's  a  good 
man  —  a  powerful  good  man ;  an'  there  ain't  a 
squarer  man  goin'  ter  work  fur.   But  the  fact 
is,  he  was  made  up  wrong  side  out,  an'  the 
seams  has  always  showed  bad  —  tumble  bad, 
with  ravelin's  all  stickin'  out  every  which  way 
ter  ketch  an'  pull.   But,  gosh!   I'm  blamed  if 
that  'ere  boy  ain't  got  him  so  smoothed  down, 
you  would  n't  know,  scursely,  that  he  had  a 
seam  on  him,  sometimes;  though  how  he's 
done  it  beats  me.  Now,  there's  Mis'  Holly  — 
ishe's  tried  ter  smooth  'em,  I  '11  warrant,  lots  of 
times.  But  I  'm  free  ter  say  she  hain't  never  so 
much  as  clipped  a  ravelin'  in  all  them  forty 
years   they've  lived   tergether.    Fact  is,  it's 
worked  the  other  way  with  her.   All  that  her 

268 


HEAVY  HEARTS 

rubbin'  up  ag'in'  them  seams  has  amounted 
to  is  ter  git  herself  so  smoothed  down  that 
she  don't  never  dare  ter  say  her  soul's  her 
own,  most  generally,  —  anyhow,  not  if  he  hap 
pens  ter  intermate  it  belongs  ter  anybody 
else!" 

Jack  Gurnsey  suddenly  choked  over  a  cough, 

"I  wish  I  could  —  do  something,"  he  mur 
mured  uncertainly. 

'"T  ain't  likely  ye  can  — not  so  long  as  Mr. 
an'  Mis'  Holly  is  on  their  two  feet.  Why,  there 
ain't  nothin'  they  won't  do,  an'  you'll  believe 
it,  maybe,  when  I  tell  you  that  yesterday  Mr. 
Holly,  he  tramped  all  through  Sawyer's  woods 
in  the  rain,  jest  ter  find  a  little  bit  of  moss  that 
the  boy  was  callin'  for.  Think  o'  that,  will  ye? 
Simeon  Holly  huntin'  moss !  An'  he  got  it,  too, 
an'  brung  it  home,  an'  they  say  it  cut  him  up 
some  thin'  tumble  when  the  boy  jest  turned 
away,  and  did  n't  take  no  notice.  You  under 
stand,  'course,  sir,  the  little  chap  ain't  rignt  in 
his  head,  an'  so  half  the  time  he  don't  know 
what  he  says." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,  sorry!"  exclaimed  Gurnsey, 
as  he  turned  away,  and  hurried  toward  the 
farmhouse. 

269 


JUST  DAVID 

Mrs.  Holly  herself  answered  his  low  knock. 
She  looked  worn  and  pale. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  gratefully,  in  re 
ply  to  his  offer  of  assistance,  "but  there  is  n't 
anything  you  can  do,  Mr.  Gurnsey.  We're 
having  everything  done  that  can  be,  and  every 
one  is  very  kind.  We  have  a  very  good  nurse, 
and  Dr.  Kennedy  has  had  consultation  with  Dr. 
Benson  from  the  Junction.  They  are  doing  all 
in  their  power,  of  course,  but  they  say  that  — 
that  it's  going  to  be  the  nursing  that  will 
count  now." 

"Then  I  don't  fear  for  him,  surely,"  declared 
the  man,  with  fervor. 

"I  know,  but  —  well,  he  shall  have  the  very 
best  possible  —  of  that." 

"I  know  he  will;  but  isn't  there  anything  — 
anything  that  I  can  do?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.  Of  course,  if  he  gets  better — '*  She 
hesitated;  then  lifted  her  chin  a  little  higher; 
"When  he  gets  better,"  she  corrected  with 
courageous  emphasis,  "he  will  want  to  see  you." 

"And  he  shall  see  me,"  asserted  Gurnsey. 
"And  he  will  be  better,  Mrs.  Holly,  —  I'm 
sure  he  will." 

270 


HEAVY  HEARTS 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,  only  —  oh,  Mr.  Jack, 
he 's  so  sick  —  so  very  sick !  The  doctor  says 
he's  a  peculiarly  sensitive  nature,  and  that  he 
thinks  something 's  been  troubling  him  lately." 
Her  voice  broke. 

"Poor  little  chap!"  Mr.  Jack's  voice,  too, 
was  husky. 

She  looked  up  with  swift  gratefulness  for  his 
sympathy. 

"And  you  loved  him,  too,  I  know,"  she 
choked.  "He  talks  of  you  often  —  very  often." 

"Indeed  I  love  him!  Who  could  help  it?" 

"There  could  n't  anybody,  Mr.  Jack,  —  and 
that's  just  it.  Now,  since  he's  been  sick,  we've 
wondered  more  than  ever  who  he  is.  You  see, 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  somewhere  he's 
got  friends  who  ought  to  know  about  him  — 
now." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  nodded  the  man. 

"He  is  n't  an  ordinary  boy,  Mr.  Jack.  He's 
been  trained  in  lots  of  ways  —  about  his  man 
ners,  and  at  the  table,  and  all  that.  And  lots  of 
things  his  father  has  told  him  are  beautiful, 
just  beautiful!  He  isn't  a  tramp.  He  never 
was  one.  And  there's  his  playing.  You  know 
how  he  can  play." 

371 


JUST  DAVID 

"Indeed  I  do!  You  must  miss  his  playing, 
too." 

"I  do;  he  talks  of  that,  also,"  she  hurried  on, 
working  her  fingers  nervously  together;  "but  ; 
oftenest  he  —  he  speaks  of  singing,  and  I  can't  ' 
quite  understand  that,  for  he  did  n't  ever  sing, 
you  know." 

"Singing?  What  does  he  say?"  The  man 
asked  the  question  because  he  saw  that  it  was 
affording  the  overwrought  little  woman  real 
relief  to  free  her  mind ;  but  at  the  first  words  of 
her  reply  he  became  suddenly  alert. 

"It's  'his  song,'  as  he  calls  it,  that  he  talks 
about,  always.  It  is  n't  much  —  what  he  says 
—  but  I  noticed  it  because  he  always  says  the 
same  thing,  like  this:  'I'll  just  hold  up  my 
chin  and  march  straight  on  and  on,  and  I'll 
sing  it  with  all  my  might  and  main.'  And  when 
I  ask  him  what  he's  going  to  sing,  he  always 
says,  'My  song  —  my  song,'  just  like  that.  Do 
you  think,  Mr.  Jack,  he  did  have  —  a  song?" 

For  a  moment  the  man  did  not  answer. 
Something  in  his  throat  tightened,  and  held 
the  words.  Then,  in  a  low  voice  he  managed  to 
stammer :  — 

"I  think  he  did,  Mrs.  Holly,  and  —  I  think 
272 


HEAVY  HEARTS 

he  sang  it,  too."  The  next  moment,  with  a 
quick  lifting  of  his  hat  and  a  murmured  "I'll 
call  again  soon,"  he  turned  and  walked  swiftly 
down  the  driveway. 

So  very  swiftly,  indeed,  was  Mr.  Jack  walk 
ing,  and  so  self-absorbed  was  he,  that  he  did 
not  see  the  carriage  until  it  was  almost  upon 
him;  then  he  stepped  aside  to  let  it  pass.  What 
he  saw  as  he  gravely  raised  his  hat  was  a  hand 
some  span  of  black  horses,  a  liveried  coachman, 
and  a  pair  of  startled  eyes  looking  straight  into 
his.  What  he  did  not  see  was  the  quick  gesture 
with  which  Miss  Holbrook  almost  ordered  her 
carriage  stopped  the  minute  it  had  passed 
him  by. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AS  PERRY   SAW   IT 

ONE  by  one  the  days  passed,  and  there  came 
from  the  anxious  watchers  at  David's  bedside 
only  the  words,  "There's  very  little  change." 
Often  Jack  Gurnsey  went  to  the  farmhouse  to 
inquire  for  the  boy.  Often,  too,  he  saw  Perry 
Larson;  and  Perry  was  never  loath  to  talk  of 
David.  It  was  from  Perry,  indeed,  that  Gurnsey 
began  to  learn  some  things  of  David  that  he 
had  never  known  before. 

"It  does  beat  all,"  Perry  Larson  said  to  him 
one  day,  "how  many  folks  asks  me  how  that 
boy  is  —  folks  that  you'd  never  think  knew 
him,  anyhow,  ter  say  nothin'  of  carin'  whether 
he  lived  or  died.  Now,  there's  old  Mis'  Somers, 
fur  instance.  You  know  what  she  is  —  sour  as 
a  lemon  an'  puckery  as  a  chokecherry.  Well,  if 
she  did  n't  give  me  yesterday  a  great  bo-kay 
o'  posies  she'd  growed  herself,  an'  said  they 
was  fur  him  —  that  they  berlonged  ter  him, 
anyhow. 

"  'Course,  I  did  n't  exactly  sense  what  she 
274 


AS  PERRY  SAW  IT 

meant  by  that,  so  I  asked  her  straight  out;  an* 
it  seems  that  somehow,  when  the  boy  first 
come,  he  struck  her  place  one  day  an'  spied 
a  great  big  red  rose  on  one  of  her  bushes.  It 
seems  he  had  his  fiddle,  an'  he  'played  it'  — 
that  rose  a-growin'  (you  know  his  way !),  an'  she 
heard  an'  spoke  up  pretty  sharp  an'  asked  him 
what  in  time  he  was  doin'.  Well,  most  kids 
would  'a'  run,  —  knowin'  her  temper  as  they 
does,  —  but  not  much  David.  He  stands  up  as 
pert  as  ye  please,  an'  tells  her  how  happy  that 
red  rose  must  be  ter  make  all  that  dreary 
garden  look  so  pretty;  an'  then  he  goes  on, 
merry  as  a  lark,  a-playin'  down  the  hill. 

"Well,  Mis'  Somers  owned  up  ter  me  that 
she  was  pretty  mad  at  the  time,  'cause  her 
garden  did  look  like  tunket,  an'  she  knew  it, 
She  said  she  had  n't  cared  ter  do  a  thing  with 
it  since  her  Bessie  died  that  thought  so  much 
of  it.  But  after  what  David  had  said,  even  mad 
as  she  was,  the  thing  kind  o'  got  on  her  nerves, 
an'  she  could  n't  see  a  thing,  day  or  night,  but 
that  red  rose  a-growin'  there  so  pert  an'  cour- 
ageous-like,  until  at  last,  jest  ter  quiet  herself, 
she  fairly  had  ter  set  to  an'  slick  that  garden  up ! 
She  said  she  raked  an'  weeded,  an'  fixed  up  all 

275 


JUST  DAVID 

the  plants  there  was,  in  good  shape,  an'  then 
she  sent  down  to  the  Junction  fur  some  all 
.Crowed  in  pots,  'cause  't  was  too  late  ter  plant 
seeds.  An,  now  it's  doin'  beautiful,  so  she  jest 
could  n't  help  sendin'  them  posies  ter  David. 
When  I  told  Mis'  Holly,  she  said  she  was  glad 
it  happened,  'cause  what  Mis'  Somers  needed 
was  somethin'  ter  git  her  out  of  herself  —  an' 
I'm  free  ter  say  she  did  look  better-natured, 
an'  no  mistake,  —  kind  o'  like  a  chokecherry 
in  blossom,  ye  might  say." 

"An'  then  there's  the  Widder  Glaspell," 
continued  Perry,  after  a  pause.  "'Course,  any 
one  would  expect  she'd  feel  bad,  seem'  as  how 
good  David  was  ter  her  boy  —  teachin'  him  ter 
play,  ye  know.  But  Mis'  Glaspell  says  Joe  jest 
does  take  on  somethin'  tumble,  an'  he  won't 
tech  the  fiddle,  though  he  was  plum  carried 
away  with  it  when  David  was  well  an'  teachin' 
of  him.  An'  there's  the  Clark  kid.  He's  lame, 
ve  know,  an'  he  thought  the  world  an'  all  of 
David's  playin'. 

;<  'Course,  there 's  you  an'  Miss  Holbrook, 
always  askin'  an'  sendin'  things  —  but  that 
ain't  so  strange,  'cause  you  was  'specially  his 
friends.  But  it's  them  others  what  beats  me. 

276 


AS  PERRY  SAW  IT 

Why,  some  days  it's  'most  ev'ry  soul  I  meet, 
jest  askin'  how  he  is,  an'  sayin'  they  hopes 
he'll  git  well.  Sometimes  it's  kids  that  he's 
played  to,  an'  I'll  be  jiggered  if  one  of  'em 
one  day  did  n't  have  no  excuse  to  offer  ex 
cept  that  David  had  fit  him  -  -  'bout  a  cat,  or 
somethin'  —  an'  that  ever  since  then  he  'd 
thought  a  heap  of  him  —  though  he  guessed 
David  did  n't  know  it.  Listen  ter  that,  will 
ye! 

"An'  once  a  woman  held  me  up,  an'  took  on 
tumble,  but  all  I  could  git  from  her  was  that 
he'd  sat  on  her  doorstep  an'  played  ter  her 
baby  once  or  twice;  —  as  if  that  was  any  thin'! 
But  one  of  the  derndest  funny  ones  was  the 
woman  who  said  she  could  wash  her  dishes  a 
sight  easier  after  she'd  a-seen  him  go  by 
playin'.  There  was  Bill  Dowd,  too.  You  know 
he  really  has  got  a  screw  loose  in  his  head  some- 
wheres,  an'  there  ain't  any  one  but  what  says 
he's  the  town  fool,  all  right.  Well,  what  do 
ye  think  he  said?" 

Mr.  Jack  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  he  said  he  did  hope  as  how  nothin' 
would  happen  ter  that  boy,  'cause  he  did  so 
like  ter  see  him  smile,  an'  that  he  always  did 

277 


JUST  DAVID 

smile  every  time  he  met  him!  There,  what  do 
ye  think  o'  that?" 

"Well,  I  think,  Perry,"  returned  Mr.  Jack 
soberly,  "that  Bill  Dowd  wasn't  playing  the 
fool,  when  he  said  that,  quite  so  much  as  he 
sometimes  is,  perhaps." 

"Hm-m,  maybe  not,"  murmured  Perry  Lar 
son  perplexedly.  "Still,  I'm  free  ter  say  I  do 
think  'twas  kind  o'(  queer."  He  paused,  then 
slapped  his  knee  suddenly.  "Say,  did  I  tell 
ye  about  Streeter  —  Old  Bill  Streeter  an'  the 
pear  tree?" 

Again  Mr.  Jack  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then,  I'm  goin'  to,"  declared  the 
other,  with  gleeful  emphasis.  "An',  say,  I 
don't  believe  even  you  can  explain  this  —  I 
don't !  Well,  you  know  Streeter  —  ev'ry  one 
does,  so  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  sland'rous.  He 
was  cut  on  a  bias,  an'  that  bias  runs  ter  money 
every  time.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he 
won't  lift  his  finger  unless  there's  a  dollar 
stickin'  to  it,  an'  that  he  hain't  no  use  fur 
anythin'  nor  anybody  unless  there's  money  in 
it  for  him.  I  'm  blamed  if  I  don't  think  that  if 
he  ever  gits  ter  heaven,  he'll  pluck  his  own  wings 
an'  sell  the  feathers  fur  what  they'll  bring." 

278 


AS  PERRY  SAW  IT 

"Oh,  Perry!"  remonstrated  Mr.  Jack,  in  a 
half-stifled  voice. 

Perry  Larson  only  grinned  and  went  on  im- 
perturbably. 

"Well,  seem'  as  we  both  understand  what  he 
z's,  I'll  tell  ye  what  he  done.  He  called  me  up 
ter  his  fence  one  day,  big  as  life,  an'  says  he, 
*  How's  the  boy?'  An'  you  could  'a'  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather.  Streeter  —  a-askin' 
how  a  boy  was  that  was  sick!  An'  he  seemed 
ter  care,  too.  I  hain't  seen  him  look  so  long- 
faced  since  —  since  he  was  paid  up  on  a  sartin 
note  I  knows  of,  jest  as  he  was  smackin'  his 
lips  over  a  nice  fat  farm  that  was  comin'  to  him! 

"Well,  I  was  that  plum  puzzled  that  I  meant 
ter  find  out  why  Streeter  was  takin'  sech  notice, 
if  I  hung  fur  it.  So  I  set  to  on  a  little  detective 
work  of  my  own,  knowin',  of  course,  that 
't  wa'n't  no  use  askin'  of  him  himself.  Well,  an* 
what  do  you  s'pose  I  found  out?  If  that  little 
scamp  of  a  boy  had  n't  even  got  round  him  — 
Streeter,  the  skinflint!  He  had  —  an'  he  went 
there  often,  the  neighbors  said;  an'  Streeter 
doted  on  him.  They  declared  that  actually  he 
give  him  a  cent  once  —  though  that  part  / 
ain't  swallerin'  yet. 

279- 


JUST  DAVID 

"They  said — the  neighbors  did  —  that  it 
all  started  from  the  pear  tree  —  that  big  one 
ter  the  left  of  his  house.  Maybe  you  remember 
,it.  Well,  anyhow,  it  seems  that  it's  old,  an* 
through  bearin'  any  fruit,  though  it  still  blos 
soms  fit  ter  kill,  every  year,  only  a  little  late 
'most  always,  an'  the  blossoms  stay  on  longer 'n 
common,  as  if  they  knew  there  wa'n't  nothin* 
doin'  later.  Well,  old  Streeter  said  it  had  got 
ter  come  down.  I  reckon  he  suspected  it  of 
swipin'  some  of  the  sunshine,  or  maybe  a  little 
rain  that  belonged  ter  the  tree  t  'other  side  of 
the  road  what  did  bear  fruit  an'  was  worth 
somethin' !  Anyhow,  he  got  his  man  an'  his  axe, 
an*  was  plum  ready  ter  start  in  when  he  sees 
David  an'  David  sees  him. 

"  'T  was  when  the  boy  first  come.  He  'd  gone 
ter  walk  an'  had  struck  this  pear  tree,  all  hi 
bloom, —  an'  'course,  you  know  how  the  boy 
would  act  —  a  pear  tree,  bloomin',  is  a  likely 
sight,  I'll  own.  He  danced  and  laughed  and 
dapped  his  hands,  —  he  did  n't  have  his  fiddle 
with  him,  —  an'  carried  on  like  all  possessed. 
Then  he  sees  the  man  with  the  axe,  an'  Streeter; 
an'  Streeter  sees  him. 

"They  said  it  was  rich  then  —  Bill  Warner 
280 


AS  PERRY  SAW   IT 

heard  it  all  from  t'other  side  of  the  fence.  He 
said  that  David,  when  he  found  out  what  was 
goin'  ter  happen,  went  clean  crazy,  an*  ram 
paged  on  at  such  a  rate  that  old  Streeter 
could  n't  do  nothin'  but  stand  an'  stare,  until 
he  finally  managed  ter  growl  out:  'But  I  tell 
ye,  boy,  the  tree  ain't  no  use  no  more!' 

"Bill  says  the  boy  flew  all  to  pieces  then. 
'No  use  —  no  use!'  he  cries;  'such  a  perfectly 
beautiful  thing  as  that  no  use!  Why,  it  don't 
have  ter  be  any  use  when  it's  so  pretty.  It's 
jest  ter  look  at  an'  love,  an'  be  happy  with!' 
Fancy  sayin'  that  ter  old  Streeter!  I'd  like  ter 
seen  his  face.  But  Bill  says  that  wa'n't  half 
what  the  boy  said.  He  declared  that  't  was 
God's  present,  anyhow,  that  trees  was;  an' 
that  the  things  He  give  us  ter  look  at  was  jest 
as  much  use  as  the  things  He  give  us  ter  eat; 
an'  that  the  stars  an'  the  sunsets  an'  the  snow- 
flakes  an'  the  little  white  cloud-boats,  an*  I 
don't  know  what-all,  was  jest  as  important  in, 
the  Orchestra  of  Life  as  turnips  an'  squashes. 
An'  then,  Billy  says,  he  ended  by  jest  flingin' 
himself  on  ter  Streeter  an'  beggin'  him  ter  wait 
till  he  could  go  back  an'  git  his  fiddle  so  he  could 
tell  him  what  a  beautiful  thing  that  tree  was. 

281 


JUST  DAVID 

"Well,  if  you'll  believe  it,  old  Streeter  was  so 
plum  befuzzled  he  sent  the  man  an'  the  axe 
away  —  an'  that  tree 's  a-livin'  ter-day  —  't  is !" 
he  finished;  then,  with  a  sudden  gloom  on  his 
face,  Larson  added,  huskily:  "An'  I  only  hope 
I'll  be  sayin'  the  same  thing  of  that  boy  — 
come  next  month  at  this  time!" 

"We'll  hope  you  will,"  sighed  the  other  fer 
vently. 

And  so  one  by  one  the  days  passed,  while  the 
whole  town  waited  and  while  in  the  great  airy 
"parlor  bedroom"  of  the  Holly  farmhouse  one 
small  boy  fought  his  battle  for  life.  Then  came 
the  blackest  day  and  night  of  all  when  the  town 
could  only  wait  and  watch  —  it  had  lost  its 
hope;  when  the  doctors  shook  their  heads  and 
refused  to  meet  Mrs.  Holly's  eyes;  when  the 
pulse  in  the  slim  wrist  outside  the  coverlet 
played  hide-and-seek  with  the  cool,  persistent 
fingers  that  sought  so  earnestly  for  it;  when 
Perry  Larson  sat  for  uncounted  sleepless  hours 
by  the  kitchen  stove,  and  fearfully  listened  for 
a  step  crossing  the  hallway;  when  Mr.  Jack  on 
his  porch,  and  Miss  Holbrook  in  her  tower 
window,  went  with  David  down  into  the  dark 
valley,  and  came  so  near  the  rushing  river  that 

282 


AS  PERRY  SAW  IT 

life,  with  its  petty  prides  and  prejudices,  could 
never  seem  quite  the  same  to  them  again. 

Then,  after  that  blackest  day  and  night, 
came  the  dawn  —  as  the  dawns  do  come  after 
the  blackest  of  days  and  nights.  In  the  slender 
wrist  outside  the  coverlet  the  pulse  gained  and 
steadied.  On  the  forehead  beneath  the  nurse's 
fingers,  a  moisture  came.  The  doctors  nodded 
their  heads  now,  and  looked  every  one  straight 
in  the  eye.  "He  will  live,"  they  said.  "The 
crisis  is  passed."  Out  by  the  kitchen  stove 
Perry  Larson  heard  the  step  cross  the  hall  and 
sprang  upright;  but  at  the  first  glimpse  of  Mrs. 
Holly's  tear-wet,  yet  radiant  face,  he  collapsed 
limply. 

"Gosh!"  he  muttered.  "Say,  do  you  know, 
I  did  n't  s'pose  I  did  care  so  much !  I  reckon 
I '11  go  an'  tell  Mr.  Jack.  He'll  want  ter  hear." 


CHAPTER  XXin 

PUZZLES 

DAVID'S  convalescence  was  picturesque,  in  a 
way.  As  soon  as  he  was  able,  like  a  king  he 
sat  upon  his  throne  and  received  his  subjects; 
and  a  very  gracious  king  he  was,  indeed.  His 
room  overflowed  with  flowers  and  fruit,  and  his 
bed  quite  groaned  with  the  toys  and  books 
and  games  brought  for  his  diversion,  each  one 
of  which  he  hailed  with  delight,  from  Miss 
Holbrook's  sumptuously  bound  "Waverley 
Novels"  to  little  crippled  Jimmy  Clark's  bag 
of  marbles. 

Only  two  things  puzzled  David :  one  was  why 
everybody  was  so  good  to  him;  and  the  other 
was  why  he  never  could  have  the  pleasure  of 
both  Mr.  Jack's  and  Miss  Holbrook's  company 
at  the  same  time. 

David  discovered  this  last  curious  circum 
stance  concerning  Mr.  Jack  and  Miss  Holbrook 
very  early  in  his  convalescence.  It  was  on  the 
second  afternoon  that  Mr.  Jack  had  been  ad- 

284 


PUZZLES 

mitted  to  the  sick-room.  David  had  been  hear 
ing  all  the  latest  news  of  Jill  and  Joe,  when 
suddenly  he  noticed  an  odd  change  come  to  his 
visitor's  face. 

The  windows  of  the  Holly  "parlor  bedroom" 
commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  road,  and  it  was 
toward  one  of  these  windows  that  Mr.  Jack's 
eyes  were  directed.  David,  sitting  up  in  bed, 
saw  then  that  down  the  road  was  approaching 
very  swiftly  a  handsome  span  of  black  horses 
and  an  open  carriage  which  he  had  come  to 
recognize  as  belonging  to  Miss  Holbrook.  He 
watched  it  eagerly  now  till  he  saw  the  horses 
turn  in  at  the  Holly  driveway.  Then  he  gave 
a  low  cry  of  delight. 

"It's  my  Lady  of  the  Roses!  She's  coming 
to  see  me.  Look!  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  Now  you '11 
see  her,  and  just  know  how  lovely  she  is.  Why, 
Mr.  Jack,  you  aren't  going  now!"  he  broke 
off  in  manifest  disappointment,  as  Mr.  Jack 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

"I  think  I'll  have  to,  if  you  don't  mind,  ! 
David,"  returned  the  man,  an  oddly  nervous 
haste  in  his  manner.    "And  you  won't  mind, 
now  that  you'll  have  Miss  Holbrook.   I  want 
to  speak  to  Larson.  I  saw  him  in  the  field  out 

286 


JUST  DAVID 

there  a  minute  ago.  And  I  guess  I  '11  slip  right 
through  this  window  here,  too,  David.  I  don't 
want  to  lose  him;  and  I  can  catch  him  quicker 
this  way  than  any  other,"  he  finished,  throwing 
up  the  sash. 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Jack,  please  just  wait  a  mirf- 
ute,"  begged  David.  "I  wanted  you  to  see  my 
Lady  of  the  Roses,  and  — "  But  Mr.  Jack  was 
already  on  the  ground  outside  the  low  window, 
and  the  next  minute,  with  a  merry  nod  and 
anile,  he  had  pulled  the  sash  down  after  him 
and  was  hurrying  away. 

.\lmost  at  once,  then,  Miss  Holbrook  ap 
peared  at  the  bedroom  door. 

"Mrs.  Holly  said  I  was  to  walk  right  in, 
David,  so  here  I  am,"  she  began,  in  a  cheery 
voice.  "Oh,  you're  looking  lots  better  than 
when  I  saw  you  Monday,  young  man!" 

"I  am  better,"  caroled  David;  "and  to-day 
I'm  'specially  better,  because  Mr.  Jack  has 
been  here." 

"Oh,  has  Mr.  Jack  been  to  see  you  to-day?" 
There  was  an  indefinable  change  in  Miss  Hoi- 
brook's  voice. 

"Yes,  right  now.  Why,  he  was  here  when 
you  were  driving  into  the  yard." 

286 


PUZZLES 

Miss  Holbrook  gave  a  perceptible  start  and 
looked  about  her  a  little  wildly. 

"Here  when  —  But  I  did  n't  meet  him  any 
where  —  in  the  hall." 

"He  did  n't  go  through  the  hall,"  laughed 
David  gleefully.  "He  went  right  through  that 
window  there." 

"The  window!"  An  angry  flush  mounted  to 
Miss  Holbrook's  forehead.  "Indeed,  did  he 
have  to  resort  to  that  to  escape — "  She  bit 
her  lip  and  stopped  abruptly. 

David's  eyes  widened  a  little. 

"Escape?  Oh,  he  wasn't  the  one  that  was 
escaping.  It  was  Perry.  Mr.  Jack  was  afraid 
he'd  lose  him.  He  saw  him  out  the  window 
there,  right  after  he'd  seen  you,  and  he  said 
he  wanted  to  speak  to  him  and  he  was  afraid 
he'd  get  away.  So  he  jumped  right  through 
that  window  there.  See?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  —  see,"  murmured  Miss  Hol 
brook,  in  a  voice  David  thought  was  a  little 
queer. 

"I  wanted  him  to  stay,"  frowned  David  un 
certainly.  "I  wanted  him  to  see  you." 

"Dear  me,  David,  I  hope  you  did  n't  tell 
him  so." 

287 


JUST  DAVID 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did.  But  he  could  n't  stay,  even 
then.  You  see,  he  wanted  to  catch  Perry  Larson." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  retorted  Miss  Hoi- 
brook,  with  so  much  emphasis  that  David  again 
looked  at  her  with  a  slightly  disturbed  frown. 

"But  he'll  come  again  soon,  I'm  sure,  and 
then  maybe  you'll  be  here,  too.  I  do  so  want 
him  to  see  you,  Lady  of  the  Roses!" 

"Nonsense,  David!"  laughed  Miss  Holbrook 
a  little  nervously.  "Mr. — Mr.  Gurnsey  does  n't 
want  to  see  me.  He's  seen  me  dozens  of  times." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  told  me  he'd  seen  you  long  ago," 
nodded  David  gravely;  "but  he  did  n't  act  as 
if  he  remembered  it  much." 

"Didn't  he,  indeed!"  laughed  Miss  Hol 
brook,  again  flushing  a  little.  "Well,  I'm  sure, 
dear,  we  would  n't  want  to  tax  the  poor  gentle 
man's  memory  too  much,  you  know.  Come, 
suppose  you  see  what  I've  brought  you,"  she 
finished  gayly. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  cried  David,  as,  under 
Miss  Holbrook's  swift  fingers,  the  wrappings 
fell  away  and  disclosed  a  box  which,  upon  being 
opened,  was  found  to  be  filled  with  quantities 
of  oddly  shaped  bits  of  pictured  wood  —  a 
jumble  of  confusion. 

288 


PUZZLES 

"It's  a  jig-saw  puzzle,  David.  All  these  little 
pieces  fitted  together  make  a  picture,  you  see. 
I  tried  last  night  and  I  could  n't  do  it.  I  brought 
it  down  to  see  if  you  could." 
'f  "Oh,  thank  you!  I'd  love  to,"  rejoiced  the 
boy.  And  in  the  fascination  of  the  marvel  of 
finding  one  fantastic  bit  that  fitted  another, 
David  apparently  forgot  all  about  Mr.  Jack  — 
which  seemed  not  unpleasing  to  his  Lady  of 
the  Roses. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  a  week  later  that  David 
had  his  wish  of  seeing  his  Mr.  Jack  and  his 
Lady  of  the  Roses  meet  at  his  bedside.  It  was 
the  day  Miss  Holbrook  brought  to  him  the 
wonderful  set  of  handsomely  bound  "Waverley 
Novels."  He  was  still  glorying  in  his  new  pos 
session,  in  fact,  when  Mr.  Jack  appeared  sud 
denly  in  the  doorway. 

"Hullo,  my  boy,  I  just —  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  supposed  you  were  —  alone,"  he 
stammered,  looking  very  red  indeed. 

"He  is  —  that  is,  he  will  be,  soon  —  except 
for  you,  Mr.  Gurnsey,"  smiled  Miss  Holbrook, 
very  brightly.  She  was  already  on  her  feet. 

"No,  no,  I  beg  of  you,"  stammered  Mr. 
Jack,  growing  still  more  red.  "Don't  let  me 


-V 


I --- 1  -Jn: 


JUST  DAVID 

They  were  not  angry  with  each  other  — 
David  was  sure  of  that,  for  they  were  always 
very  especially  polite,  and  rose,  and  stood,  and 
bowed  in  a  most  delightful  fashion.  Still,  he 
sometimes  thought  that  they  did  not  quite  like 
each  other,  for  always,  after  the  one  went  away, 
the  other,  left  behind,  was  silent  and  almost 
stern  —  if  it  was  Mr.  Jack;  and  flushed-faced 
and  nervous — if  it  was  Miss  Holbrook.  But 
why  this  was  so  David  could  not  understand. 

The  span  of  handsome  black  horses  came  very 
frequently  to  the  Holly  farmhouse  now,  and 
as  time  passed  they  often  bore  away  behind 
them  a  white-faced  but  happy-eyed  boy  on  the 
seat  beside  Miss  Holbrook. 

"My,  but  I  don't  see  how  every  one  can  be 
so  good  to  me!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  one  day,  to 
his  Lady  of  the  Roses. 

"Oh,  that's  easy,  David,"  she  smiled.  "The 
only  trouble  is  to  find  out  what  you  want  — 
you  ask  for  so  little." 

"But  I  don't  need  to  ask  —  you  do  it  all  be 
forehand,"  asserted  the  boy;  "you  and  Mr. 
Jack,  and  everybody." 

"Really?  That's  good."  For  a  brief  moment 
Miss  Holbrook  hesitated;  then,  as  if  casually, 

2Q2 


PUZZLES 

she  asked:  "And  he  tells  you  stories,  too,  I  sup 
pose,  —  this  Mr.  Jack,  —  just  as  he  used  to, 
does  n't  he?" 

"Well,  he  never  did  tell  me  but  one,  you 
know,  before;  but  he's  told  me  more  now, 
since  I  've  been  sick." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  and  that  one  was  'The 
Princess  and  the  Pauper';  wasn't  it?  Well, 
has  he  told  you  any  more  —  like  —  that?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head  with  decision. 

"No,  he  does  n't  tell  me  any  more  like  that, 
and  —  and  I  don't  want  him  to,  either." 

Miss  Holbrook  laughed  a  little  oddly. 

"Why,  David,  what  is  the  matter  with  that?" 
she  queried. 

"The  ending;  it  was  n't  nice,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  —  I  remember." 

"I've  asked  him  to  change  it,"  went  on 
David,  in  a  grieved  voice.  "  I  asked  him  just 
the  other  day,  but  he  would  n't." 

"Perhaps  he  —  he  didn't  want  to."  Miss 
Holbrook  spoke  very  quickly,  but  so  low  that 
David  barely  heard  the  words. 

"Didn't  want  to?  Oh,  yes,  he  did!  He 
looked  awful  sober,  and  as  if  he  really  cared, 
you  know.  And  he  said  he'd  give  all  he  had  in 

298 


JUST  DAVID 

the  world  if  he  really  could  change  it,  bat  he 
could  n't:" 

"Did  he  say  — just  that?"  Miss  Holbrook 
was  leaning  forward  a  little  breathlessly  now. 

"Yes  —  just  that;  and  that's  the  part  I 
could  n't  understand,"  commented  David. 
"For  I  don't  see  why  a  story  —  just  a  story 
made  up  out  of  somebody's  head  —  can't  be 
changed  any  way  you  want  it.  And  I  told 
him  so." 

"Well,  and  what  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"He  did  n't  say  anything  for  a  minute,  and 
I  had  to  ask  him  again.  Then  he  sat  up  sud 
denly,  just  as  if  he'd  been  asleep,  you  know, 
and  said,  'Eh,  what,  David?'  And  then  I  told 
him  again  what  I'd  said.  This  time  he  shook 
his  head,  and  smiled  that  kind  of  a  smile  that 
is  n't  really  a  smile,  you  know,  and  said  some 
thing  about  a  real,  true-to-life  story's  never 
having  but  one  ending,  and  that  was  a  logical 
ending.  Lady  of  the  Roses,  what  is  a  logical 
ending?" 

The  Lady  of  the  Roses  laughed  unexpectedly. 

The  two  little  red  spots,  that  David  always 

loved  to  see,  flamed  into  her  cheeks,  and  her 

eyes  showed  a  sudden  sparkle.   When  she  an- 

.294 


PUZZLES 

swered,  her  words  came  disconnectedly,  with 
little  laughing  breaths  between. 

"Well,  David,  I  —  I'm  not  sure  I  can  —  tell 
you.    But  perhaps  I  —  can  find  out.    This 
much,  however,  I  am  sure  of :  Mr.  Jack's  logi- , 
cal  ending  would  n't  be  —  mine!" 

What  she  meant  David  did  not  know;  nor 
would  she  tell  him  when  he  asked;  but  a  few 
days  later  she  sent  for  him,  and  very  gladly 
David  —  able  now  to  go  where  he  pleased  — 
obeyed  the  summons. 

It  was  November,  and  the  garden  was  bleak 
and  cold ;  but  in  the  library  a  bright  fire  danced 
on  the  hearth,  and  before  this  Miss  Holbrook 
drew  up  two  low  chairs. 

She  looked  particularly  pretty,  David 
thought.  The  rich  red  of  her  dress  had  ap 
parently  brought  out  an  answering  red  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright  and  her 
lips  smiled ;  yet  she  seemed  oddly  nervous  and 
restless.  Shfc  sewed  a  little,  with  a  bit  of  yellow 
silk  on  white  —  but  not  for  long.  She  knitted 
with  two  long  ivory  needles  flashing  in  and  out 
of  a  silky  mesh  of  blue  —  but  this,  too,  she 
soon  ceased  doing.  On  a  low  stand  at  David's 
side  she  had  placed  books  and  pictures,  and  for 

296 


JUST  DAVID 

a  time  she  talked  of  those.  Then  very  ab 
ruptly  she  asked :  - 

"David,  when  will  you  see  —  Mr.  Jack  again 
—  do  you  suppose?" 

"To-morrow.  I'm  going  up  to  the  House 
that  Jack  Built  to  tea,  and  I'm  to  stay  all 
night.  It's  Halloween  —  that  is,  it  is  n't  really 
Halloween,  because  it's  too  late.  I  lost  that, 
being  sick,  you  know.  So  we're  going  to  pre 
tend,  and  Mr.  Jack  is  going  to  show  me  what 
it  is  like.  That  is  what  Mr.  Jack  and  Jill  always 
do;  when  something  ails  the  real  thing,  they 
just  pretend  with  the  make-believe  one.  He's 
planned  lots  of  things  for  Jill  and  me  to  do; 
with  nuts  and  apples  and  candles,  you  know. 
It's  to-morrow  night;  so  I'll  see  him  then." 

"To-morrow?  So  —  so  soon?"  faltered  Miss 
Holbrook.  And  to  David,  gazing  at  her  with 
wondering  eyes,  it  seemed  for  a  moment  almost 
as  if  she  were  looking  about  for  a  place  to  which 
she  might  run  and  hide.  Then  determinedly, 
as  if  she  were  taking  hold  of  something  with 
both  hands,  she  leaned  forward,  looked  David 
squarely  in  the  eyes,  and  began  to  talk  hurriedly » 
yet  very  distinctly. 

"David,  listen.  I  've  something  I  want  you  to 
296 


PUZZLES 

say  to  Mr.  Jack,  and  I  want  you  to  be  sure  and 
get  it  just  right.  It's  about  the  —  the  story, 
'The  Princess  and  the  Pauper,'  you  know. 
You  can  remember,  I  think,  for  you  remem 
bered  that  so  well.  Will  you  say  it  to  him  — 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  —  just  as  I  say  it?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  will!"  David's  promise 
was  unhesitating,  though  his  eyes  were  still 
puzzled. 

"It's  about  the  —  the  ending,"  stammered 
Miss  Holbrook.  "That  is,  it  may  —  it  may 
have  something  to  do  with  the  ending  —  per 
haps,"  she  finished  lamely.  And  again  David 
noticed  that  odd  shifting  of  Miss  Holbrook's 
gaze  as  if  she  were  searching  for  some  means  of 
escape.  Then,  as  before,  he  saw  her  chin  lift 
determinedly,  as  she  began  to  talk  faster  than 
ever. 

"Now,  listen,"  she  admonished  him,  earn 
estly. 

And  David  listened. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A   STORY   REMODELED 

THE  pretended  Halloween  was  a  great  success. 
So  very  excited,  indeed,  did  David  become 
over  the  swinging  apples  and  popping  nuts  that 
he  quite  forgot  to  tell  Mr.  Jack  what  the  Lady 
of  the  Roses  had  said  until  Jill  had  gone  up  to 
bed  and  he  himself  was  about  to  take  from 
Mr.  Jack's  hand  the  little  lighted  lamp. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jack,  I  forgot,"  he  cried  then. 
"There  was  something  I  was  going  to  tell 
you." 

"Never  mind  to-night,  David;  it's  so  late. 
Suppose  we  leave  it  until  to-morrow,"  sug 
gested  Mr.  Jack,  still  with  the  lamp  extended 
in  his  hand. 

"But  I  promised  the  Lady  of  the  Roses  that 
I'd  say  it  to-night,"  demurred  the  boy,  in  a 
troubled  voice. 

The  man  drew  his  lamp  halfway  back  sud 
denly. 

"The  Lady  of  the  Roses!  Do  you  mean  — 
she  sent  a  message  —  to  me?"  he  demanded. 


A  STORY  REMODELED 

"Yes;  about  the  story,  'The  Princess  and  the 
Pauper,'  you  know." 

With  an  abrupt  exclamation  Mr.  Jack  set 
the  lamp  on  the  table  and  turned  to  a  chair. 
He  had  apparently  lost  his  haste  to  go  to  bed. 

"  See  here,  David,  suppose  you  come  and  sit 
down,  and  tell  me  just  what  you're  talking 
about.  And  first  —  just  what  does  the  Lady  of 
the  Roses  know  about  that  —  that  'Princess 
and  the  Pauper'?" 

"Why,  she  knows  it  all,  of  course,"  returned 
the  boy  in  surprise.  "I  told  it  to  her." 

"You  —  told  —  it  —  to  her!"  Mr.  Jack  re 
laxed  in  his  chair.  "David!" 

"Yes.  And  she  was  just  as  interested  as 
could  be." 

"I  don't  doubt  it!"  Mr.  Jack's  lips  snapped 
together  a  little  grimly. 

"Only  she  did  n't  like  the  ending,  either." 

Mr.  Jack  sat  up  suddenly. 

"  She  did  n't  like  —  David,  are  you  sure? 
Did  she  say  that?" 

David  frowned  in  thought. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  tell,  exactly, 
but  I'm  sure  she  did  n't  like  it,  because  just 
before  she  told  me  what  to  say  to  you,  she  said 

299 


JUST  DAVID 

that  —  that  what  she  was  going  to  say  would 
probably  have  something  to  do  with  the  ending, 
anyway.  Still  — "  David  paused  in  yet  deeper 
thought.  "Come  to  think  of  it,  there  really 
is  n't  anything  —  not  in  what  she  said  —  that 
changed  that  ending,  as  I  can  see.  They  did  n't 
get  married  and  live  happy  ever  after,  anyhow." 

"Yes,  but  what  did  she  say?'*  asked  Mr. 
Jack  in  a  voice  that  was  not  quite  steady. 
"Now,  be  careful,  David,  and  tell  it  just  as 
she  said  it." 

"  Oh,  I  will,"  nodded  David.  "  She  said  to  do 
that,  too." 

"Did  she?"  Mr.  Jack  leaned  farther  forward 
in  his  chair.  "But  tell  me,  how  did  she  happen 
to  —  to  say  anything  about  it?  Suppose  you 
begin  at  the  beginning  —  away  back,  David. 
I  want  to  hear  it  all  —  all!" 

David  gave  a  contented  sigh,  and  settled 
himself  more  comfortably. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  you  see,  I  told  her  the 
story  long  ago,  before  I  was  sick,  and  she  was 
ever  so  interested  then,  and  asked  lots  of  ques 
tions.  Then  the  other  day  something  came  up 
-  I  've  forgotten  how  —  about  the  ending,  and 
I  told  her  how  hard  I'd  tried  to  have  you 

3oo 


A  STORY  REMODELED 

change  it,  but  you  would  n't.  And  she  spoke 
right  up  quick  and  said  probably  you  did  n't 
want  to  change  it,  anyhow.  But  of  course  I 
settled  that  question  without  any  trouble," 
went  on  David  confidently,  "by  just  telling  her* 
how  you  said  you'd  give  anything  in  the  world 
to  change  it." 

"And  you  told  her  that  —  just  that,  David?" 
cried  the  man. 

"Why,  yes,  I  had  to,"  answered  David,  in 
surprise,  "else  she  would  n't  have  known  that 
you  did  want  to  change  it.  Don't  you  see?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  —  see  —  a  good  deal  that  I'm 
thinking  you  don't,"  muttered  Mr.  Jack,  falling 
back  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  then  is  when  I  told  her  about  the 
logical  ending  —  what  you  said,  you  know,  - 
oh,  yes!  and  that  was  when  I  found  out  she 
did  n't  like  the  ending,  because  she  laughed 
such  a  funny  little  laugh  and  colored  up,  and 
said  that  she  was  n't  sure  she  could  tell  me 
what  a  logical  ending  was,  but  that  she  would 
try  to  find  out,  and  that,  anyhow,  your  ending 
would  n't  be  hers  —  she  was  sure  of  that." 

"David,  did  she  say  that  — really?"  Mr. 
Jack  was  on  his  feet  now. 

3oi 


JUST  DAVID 

"She  did;  and  then  yesterday  she  asked  me 
to  come  over,  and  she  said  some  more  things, — 
about  the  story,  I  mean,  —  but  she  did  n't  say 
another  thing  about  the  ending.  She  did  n't 
ever  say  anything  about  that  except  that  little 
bit  I  told  you  of  a  minute  ago." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  what  did  she  say?"  demanded 
Mr.  Jack,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"She  said:  'You  tell  Mr.  Jack  that  /  know 
something  about  that  story  of  his  that  perhaps 
he  does  n't.  In  the  first  place,  I  know  the  Prin 
cess  a  lot  better  than  he  does,  and  she  is  n't  a 
bit  the  kind  of  girl  he's  pictured  her." 

"Yes!  Goon  — goon!" 

"'Now,  for  instance,'  she  says,  'when  the 
boy  made  that  call,  after  the  girl  first  came 
back,  and  when  the  boy  did  n't  like  it  because 
they  talked  of  colleges  and  travels,  and  such 
things,  you  tell  him  that  I  happen  to  know  that 
that  girl  was  just  hoping  and  hoping  he'd 
speak  of  the  old  days  and  games;  but  that  she 
could  n't  speak,  of  course,  when  he  had  n't 
been  even  once  to  see  her  during  all  those  weeks, 
and  when  he'd  acted  in  every  way  just  as  if 
he'd  forgotten.'" 

302 


A  STORY  REMODELED 

"But  she  hadn't  waved  —  that  Princess 
hadn't  waved  —  once!"  argued  Mr.  Jack; 
"and  he  looked  and  looked  for  it." 

"Yes,  she  spoke  of  that,"  returned  David. 
"But  she  said  she  should  n't  think  the  Princess 
would  have  waved,  when  she'd  got  to  be  such 
a  great  big  girl  as  that  —  waving  to  a  boy!  She 
said  that  for  her  part  she  should  have  been 
ashamed  of  her  if  she  had!" 

"Oh,  did  she!"  murmured  Mr.  Jack  blankly, 
dropping  suddenly  into  his  chair. 

"Yes,  she  did,"  repeated  David,  with  a  little 
virtuous  uplifting  of  his  chin. 

It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  David's  sympa 
thies  had  unaccountably  met  with  a  change 
of  heart. 

"But  —  the  Pauper  — " 

"Oh,  yes,  and  that's  another  thing,"  inter 
rupted  David.  "The  Lady  of  the  Roses  said 
that  she  did  n't  like  that  name  one  bit;  that  it 
was  n't  true,  anyway,  because  he  was  n't  a 
pauper.  And  she  said,  too,  that  as  for  his 
picturing  the  Princess  as  being  perfectly  happy 
in  all  that  magnificence,  he  did  n't  get  it  right 
at  all.  For  she  knew  that  the  Princess  was  n't 
one  bit  happy,  because  she  was  so  lonesome 

3o3 


JUST  DAVID 

for  things  and  people  she  had  known  when  she 
was  just  the  girl." 

Again  Mr.  Jack  sprang  to  his  feet.  For  a 
minute  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room  in 
silence;  then  in  a  shaking  voice  he  asked:  — 

"David,  you  —  you  aren't  making  all  this 
up,  are  you?  You're  saying  just  what  —  what 
Miss  Holbrook  told  you  to?" 

"Why,  of  course,  I'm  not  making  it  up," 
protested  the  boy  aggrievedly.  "This  is  the 
Lady  of  the  Roses'  story  —  she  made  it  up  — 
only  she  talked  it  as  if  't  was  real,  of  course, 
just  as  you  did.  She  said  another  thing,  too. 
She  said  that  she  happened  to  know  that  the 
Princess  had  got  all  that  magnificence  around 
her  in  the  first  place  just  to  see  if  it  would  n't 
make  her  happy,  but  that  it  had  n't,  and  that 
now  she  had  one  place  —  a  little  room  —  that 
was  left  just  as  it  used  to  be  when  she  was  the 
girl,  and  that  she  went  there  and  sat  very  often. 
And  she  said  it  was  right  in  sight  of  where  the 
boy  lived,  too,  where  he  could  see  it  everyday; 
and  that  if  he  had  n't  been  so  blind  he  could 
have  looked  right  through  those  gray  walls  and 
seen  that,  and  seen  lots  of  other  things.  And 
what  did  she  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Jack?" 

3o4 


A  STORY  REMODELED 

"I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know,  David," 
half-groaned  Mr.  Jack.  "Sometimes  I  think 
she  means  —  and  then  I  think  that  can't  be  — 
true." 

"But  do  you  think  it's  helped  it  any  —  the 
story?"  persisted  the  boy.  "She's  only  talked 
a  little  about  the  Princess.  She  did  n't  really 
change  things  any  —  not  the  ending." 

"But  she  said  it  might,  David  —  she  said  it 
might!  Don't  you  remember?"  cried  the  man 
eagerly.  And  to  David,  his  eagerness  did  not 
seem  at  all  strange.  Mr.  Jack  had  said  before 
—  long  ago  —  that  he  would  be  very  glad 
indeed  to  have  a  happier  ending  to  this  tale. 
"Think  now,"  continued  the  man.  "Perhaps 
she  said  something  else,  too.  Did  she  say  any 
thing  else,  David?" 

David  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"No,  only  —  yes,  there  was  a  little  some 
thing,  but  it  does  n't  change  things  any,  for  it 
was  only  a  'supposing.'  She  said:  'Just  suppos 
ing,  after  long  years,  that  the  Princess  found  out 
; about  how  the  boy  felt  long  ago,  and  suppose 
he  should  look  up  at  the  tower  some  day,  at 
the  old  time,  and  see  a  one  —  two  wave,  which 
meant,  "Come  over  to  see  me."  Just  what  do 

3o5 


JUST  DAVID 

you  suppose  he  would  do?'  But  of  course,  that 
can't  do  any  good,"  finished  David  gloomily,  as 
he  rose  to  go  to  bed,  "for  that  was  only  a 
Supposing.'" 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Mr.  Jack  steadily;  and 
David  did  not  know  that  only  stern  self-control 
had  forced  the  steadiness  into  that  voice,  nor 
that,  for  Mr.  Jack,  the  whole  world  had  burst 
suddenly  into  song. 

Neither  did  David,  the  next  morning,  know 
that  long  before  eight  o'clock  Mr.  Jack  stood 
at  a  certain  window,  his  eyes  unswervingly  fixed 
on  the  gray  towers  of  Sunnycrest.  What  David 
did  know,  however,  was  that  just  after  eight, 
Mr.  Jack  strode  through  the  room  where  he 
and  Jill  were  playing  checkers,  flung  himself 
into  his  hat  and  coat,  and  then  fairly  leaped 
down  the  steps  toward  the  path  that  led  to  the 
footbridge  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 

"Why,  whatever  in  the  world  ails  Jack?" 
gasped  Jill.  Then,  after  a  startled  pause,  she 
asked:  "David,  do  folks  ever  go  crazy  for  joy? 
Yesterday,  you  see,  Jack  got  two  splendid  pieces 
of  news.  One  was  from  his  doctor.  He  was  ex 
amined,  and  he's  fine,  the  doctor  says;  all  well, 
so  he  can  go  back  now,  any  time,  to  the  city 

3o6 


A  STORY  REMODELED 

and  work.  I  shall  go  to  school  then,  you  know, 
—  a  young  ladies'  school,"  she  finished,  a  little 
importantly. 

"He's  well?  How  splendid!  But  what  was 
the  other  news?  You  said  there  were  two;  only 
it  could  n't  have  been  nicer  than  that  was;  to 
be  well  — all  well!"  » 

"The  other?  Well,  that  was  only  that  his 
old  place  in  the  city  was  waiting  for  him.  He 
was  with  a  firm  of  big  lawyers,  you  know,  and 
of  course  it  is  nice  to  have  a  place  all  waiting. 
But  I  can't  see  anything  in  those  things  to 
make  him  act  like  this,  now.  Can  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  maybe,"  declared  David.  "He's 
found  his  work  —  don't  you  see?  —  out  in  the 
world,  and  he's  going  to  do  it.  I  know  how 
I  'd  feel  if  I  had  found  mine  that  father  told  me 
of!  Only  what  I  can't  understand  is,  if  Mr. 
Jack  knew  all  this  yesterday,  why  did  n't  he 
act  like  this  then,  instead  of  waiting  till  to 
day?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Jill. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

DAVID  found  many  new  songs  in  his  violin 
those  early  winter  days,  and  they  were  very 
beautiful  ones.  To  begin  with,  there  were  all 
the  kindly  looks  and  deeds  that  were  showered 
upon  him  from  every  side.  There  was  the  first 
snowstorm,  too,  with  the  feathery  flakes  turn 
ing  all  the  world  to  fairy  whiteness.  This  song 
David  played  to  Mr.  Streeter,  one  day,  and 
great  was  his  disappointment  that  the  man  could 
not  seem  to  understand  what  the  song  said. 

"But  don't  you  see?"  pleaded  David.  "I'm 
telling  you  that  it's  your  pear-tree  blossoms 
come  back  to  say  how  glad  they  are  that  you 
did  n't  kill  them  that  day." 

"Pear-tree  blossoms  —  come  back!"  ejacu 
lated  the  old  man.  "Well,  no,  I  can't  see. 
Where's  yer  pear-tree  blossoms?" 

"Why,  there  —  out  of  the  window  —  every 
where,"  urged  the  boy. 

"  There !  By  ginger !  boy  —  ye  don't  mean  — 
ye  can't  mean  the  snow!" 

3o8 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

"Of  course  I  do!  Now,  can't  you  see  it? 
Why,  the  whole  tree  was  just  a  great  big  cloud 
of  snowflakes.  Don't  you  remember?  Well, 
now  it's  gone  away  and  got  a  whole  lot  more 
trees,  and  all  the  little  white  petals  have  come 
dancing  down  to  celebrate,  and  to  tell  you  they 
sure  are  coming  back  next  year." 

"Well,  by  ginger!"  exclaimed  the  man  again. 
Then,  suddenly,  he  threw  back  his  head  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  David  did  not  quite  like  the 
laugh,  neither  did  he  care  for  the  five-cent  piece 
that  the  man  thrust  into  his  fingers  a  little 
later;  though  —  had  David  but  known  it  — 
both  the  laugh  and  the  five-cent  piece  gift  were 
—  for  the  uncomprehending  man  who  gave 
them  —  white  milestones  along  an  unfamiliar 
way. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  there  came  to 
David  the  great  surprise  —  his  beloved  Lady 
of  the  Roses  and  his  no  less  beloved  Mr.  Jack 
were  to  be  married  at  the  beginning  of  the  New 
Year.  So  very  surprised,  indeed,  was  David  at 
this,  that  even  his  violin  was  mute,  and  had 
nothing,  at  first,  to  say  about  it.  But  to  Mr. 
Jack,  as  man  to  man,  David  said  one  day :  — 

"  I  thought  men,  when  they  married  women, 
809 


JUST  DAVID 

went  courting.  In  story-books  they  do.  And 
you  —  you  hardly  ever  said  a  word  to  my  beau 
tiful  Lady  of  the  Roses;  and  you  spoke  once  — 
long  ago  —  as  if  you  scarcely  remembered  her 
at  all.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

And  Mr.  Jack  laughed,  but  he  grew  red,  too, 
—  and  then  he  told  it  all,  —  that  it  was  just 
the  story  of  "The  Princess  and  the  Pauper,'* 
and  that  he,  David,  had  been  the  one,  as  it 
happened,  to  do  part  of  their  courting  for  them. 

And  how  David  had  laughed  then,  and  how 
he  had  fairly  hugged  himself  for  joy !  And  when 
next  he  had  picked  up  his  violin,  what  a  beau 
tiful,  beautiful  song  he  had  found  about  it  in 
the  vibrant  strings! 

It  was  this  same  song,  as  it  chanced,  that  he 
was  playing  in  his  room  that  Saturday  after 
noon  when  the  letter  from  Simeon  Holly's  long- 
lost  son  John  came  to  the  Holly  farmhouse. 

Downstairs  in  the  kitchen,  Simeon  Holly 
stood,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Ellen,  we've  got  a  letter  from  —  John,"  he 
said.  That  Simeon  Holly  spoke  of  it  at  all 
showed  how  very  far  along  his  unfamiliar  way  he 
had  come  since  the  last  letter  from  John  had 
arrived. 

3io 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

"From  — John?  Oh,  Simeon!  From  John?" 

"Yes." 

Simeon  sat  down  and  tried  to  hide  the  shak 
ing  of  his  hand  as  he  ran  the  point  of  his  knife 
onder  the  flap  of  the  envelope.  "We'll  see 
what  —  he  says."  And  to  hear  him,  one  might 
have  thought  that  letters  from  John  were  every 
day  occurrences. 

DEAR  FATHER:  Twice  before  I  have  written  [ran  the 
letter],  and  received  no  answer.  But  I  'm  going  to 
make  one  more  effort  for  forgiveness.  May  I  not 
come  to  you  this  Christmas?  I  have  a  little  boy  of  my 
own  now,  and  my  heart  aches  for  you.  I  know  how  1 
should  feel,  should  he,  in  years  to  come,  do  as  I  did. 

I  '11  not  deceive  you  —  I  have  not  given  up  my  art. 
You  told  me  once  to  choose  between  you  and  it  —  and 
I  chose,  I  suppose;  at  least,  I  ran  away.  Yet  in  the 
face  of  all  that,  I  ask  you  again,  may  I  not  come  to 
you  at  Christmas?  I  want  you,  father,  and  I  want 
mother.  And  I  want  you  to  see  my  boy. 

"Well?"  said  Simeon  Holly,  trying  to  speak 
with  a  steady  coldness  that  would  not  show 
how  deeply  moved  he  was.  "Well,  Ellen?" 

"Yes,  Simeon,  yes!"  choked  his  wife,  a  world 
of  mother-love  and  longing  in  her  pleading 
eyes  and  voice.  "Yes  —  you'll  let  it  be—* 
4  Yes'!" 

3n 


JUST  DAVID 

"Uncle  Simeon,  Aunt  Ellen,"  called  David, 
clattering  down  the  stairs  from  his  room,  "  I  've 
found  such  a  beautiful  song  in  my  violin,  and 
I'm  going  to  play  it  over  and  over  so  as  to  be 
sure  and  remember  it  for  father  —  for  it  is  a 
beautiful  world,  Uncle  Simeon,  is  n't  it?  Now, 
listen!" 

And  Simeon  Holly  listened  —  but  it  was  not 
the  violin  that  he  heard.  It  was  the  voice  of 
a  little  curly-headed  boy  out  of  the  past. 

When  David  stopped  playing  some  time  later, 
only  the  woman  sat  watching  him  —  the  man 
was  over  at  his  desk,  pen  in  hand. 

John,  John's  wife,  and  John's  boy  came  the 
day  before  Christmas,  and  great  was  the  ex 
citement  in  the  Holly  farmhouse.  John  was 
found  to  be  big,  strong,  and  bronzed  with  the 
outdoor  life  of  many  a  sketching  trip  —  a  son 
to  be  proud  of,  and  to  be  leaned  upon  in  one's 
old  age.  Mrs.  John,  according  to  Perry  Larson, 
was  "the  slickest  little  woman  goin'."  Accord- 
ing  to  John's  mother,  she  was  an  almost  un 
believable  incarnation  of  a  long-dreamed-of, 
long-despaired-of  daughter  —  sweet,  lovable, 
and  charmingly  beautiful.  Little  John  —  little 
John  was  himself;  and  he  could  not  have  been 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

more  had  he  been  an  angel-cherub  straight 
from  heaven — which,  in  fact,  he  was,  in  his 
doting  grandparents'  eyes. 

John  Holly  had  been  at  his  old  home  less 
than  four  hours  when  he  chanced  upon  David's 
violin.  He  was  with  his  father  and  mother  at 
the  time.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room. 
With  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  parents,  he  picked 
up  the  instrument — John  Holly  had  not  for 
gotten  his  own  youth.  His  violin-playing  in 
the  old  days  had  not  been  welcome,  he  re 
membered. 

"A  fiddle!  Who  plays?"  he  asked. 

"David." 

"Oh,  the  boy.  You  say  you  —  took  him  in? 
By  the  way,  what  an  odd  little  shaver  he  is! 
Never  did  I  see  a  boy  like  him." 

Simeon  Holly's  head  came  up  almost  ag 
gressively. 

"David  is  a  good  boy  —  a  very  good  boy, 
indeed,  John.  We  think  a  great  deal  of  him." 

John  Holly  laughed  lightly,  yet  his  brow  car 
ried  a  puzzled  frown.  TWTO  things  John  Holly 
had  not  been  able  thus  far  to  understand:  an 
indefinable  change  in  his  father,  and  the  posi 
tion  of  the  boy,  David,  in  the  household  — 

3i3 


JUST  DAVID 

John  Holly  was  still  remembering  his  own  re 
pressed  youth. 

"Hm-m,"  he  murmured,  softly  picking  the 
strings,  then  drawing  across  them  a  tentative 
bow.  "I've  a  fiddle  at  home  that  I  play  some 
times.  Do  you  mind  if  I  —  tune  her  up?" 

A  flicker  of  something  that  was  very  near  to 
humor  flashed  from  his  father's  eyes. 

"Oh,  no.  We  are  used  to  that  —  now."  And 
again  John  Holly  remembered  his  youth. 

"Jove!  but  he's  got  the  dandy  instrument 
here,"  cried  the  player,  dropping  his  bow  after 
the  first  half-dozen  superbly  vibrant  tones,  and 
carrying  the  violin  to  the  window.  A  moment 
later  he  gave  an  amazed  ejaculation  and  turned 
on  his  father  a  dumfounded  face. 

"Great  Scott,  father!  Where  did  that  boy  get 
this  instrument?  I  know  something  of  violins, 
if  I  can't  play  them  much;  and  this  —  !  Where 
cfid  he  get  it?" 

"Of  his  father,  I  suppose.  He  had  it  when  he 
came  here,  anyway." 

"Had  it  when  he  came'!  But,  father,  you 
said  he  was  a  tramp,  and  —  oh,  come,  tell  me, 
what  is  the  secret  behind  this?  Here  I  come 
home  and  find  calmly  reposing  on  my  father's 

3i4 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

sitting-room  table  a  violin  that 's  priceless,  for 
all  I  know.  Anyhow,  I  do  know  that  its  value 
is  reckoned  in  the  thousands,  not  hundreds: 
and  yet  you,  with  equal  calmness,  tell  me  it's 
owned  by  this  boy  who,  it's  safe  to  say,  does  n't 
know  how  to  play  sixteen  notes  on  it  correctly, 
to  say  nothing  of  appreciating  those  he  does 
play;  and  who,  by  your  own  account,  is  nothing 
but  —  "  A  swiftly  uplifted  hand  of  warning 
stayed  the  words  on  his  lips.  He  turned  to  see 
David  himself  in  the  doorway. 

"Come  in,  David,"  said  Simeon  Holly 
quietly.  "My  son  wants  to  hear  you  play.  I 
don't  think  he  has  heard  you."  And  again  there 
flashed  from  Simeon  Holly's  eyes  a  something 
very  much  like  humor. 

With  obvious  hesitation  John  Holly  relin 
quished  the  violin.  From  the  expression  on  his 
face  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  the  sort  of  torture 
he  deemed  was  before  him.  But,  as  if  con 
strained  to  ask  the  question,  he  did  say :  — 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  violin,  boy?  " 

"I  don't  know.  We've  always  had  it,  ever 
since  I  could  remember  —  this  and  the  other 
one." 

"Theo/toone!" 

3i5 


JUST  DAVID 

"Father's." 

"Oh!"  He  hesitated;  then,  a  little  severely, 
he  observed:  "This  is  a  fine  instrument,  boy, 
—  a  very  fine  instrument." 

"Yes,"  nodded  David,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 
"Father  said  it  was.  I  like  it,  too.  This  is  an 
Amati,  but  the  other  is  a  Stradivarius.  I  don't 
know  which  I  do  like  best,  sometimes,  only  this 
is  mine." 

With  a  half-smothered  ejaculation  John  Holly 
fell  back  limply. 

"Then  you  —  do  —  know?"  he  challenged. 

"Know  — what?" 

"The  value  of  that  violin  in  your  hands." 

There  was  no  answer.  The  boy's  eyes  were 
questioning. 

"The  worth,  I  mean,  —  what  it's  worth." 

"Why,  no  —  yes  —  that  is,  it's  worth  every 
thing  —  to  me,"  answered  David,  in  a  puzzled 
voice. 

With  an  impatient  gesture  John  Holly 
brushed  this  aside. 

"But  the  other  one  —  where  is  that?" 

"At  Joe  Glaspell's.  I  gave  it  to  him  to  play 
on,  because  he  had  n't  any,  and  he  liked  to 
play  so  well." 

3i6 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

"You  gave  it  to  him  —  a  Stradivarius!" 

"I  loaned  it  to  him,"  corrected  David,  in  a 
troubled  voice.  "Being  father's,  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  it  away.  But  Joe  —  Joe  had  to 
have  something  to  play  on." 

"  *  Something  to  play  on ' !  Father,  he  does  n't 
mean  the  River  Street  Glaspells?"  cried  John 
Holly. 

"I  think  he  does.  Joe  is  old  Peleg  GlaspelTs 
grandson." 

John  Holly  threw  up  both  his  hands. 

"A  Stradivarius  —  to  old  Peleg's  grandson! 
Oh,  ye  gods!"  he  muttered.  "Well,  I '11  be  — " 
He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  At  another  word 
from  Simeon  Holly,  David  had  begun  to  play. 

From  his  seat  by  the  stove  Simeon  Holly 
watched  his  son's  face  —  and  smiled.  He  saw 
amazement,  unbelief,  and  delight  struggle  for 
the  mastery;  but  before  the  playing  had  ceased, 
he  was  summoned  by  Perry  Larson  to  the 
kitchen  on  a  matter  of  business.  So  it  was  into 
the  kitchen  that  John  Holly  burst  a  little  later, 
eyes  and  cheek  aflame. 

"Father,  where  in  Heaven's  name  did  you 
get  that  boy?"  he  demanded.  "Who  taught 
him  to  play  like  that?  I  've  been  trying  to  find 


JUST  DAVID 

out  from  him,  but  I'd  defy  Sherlock  Holmes 
himself  to  make  head  or  tail  of  the  sort  of  lingo 
he  talks,  about  mountain  homes  and  the  Or 
chestra  of  Life!  Father,  what  does  it  mean?" 

Obediently  Simeon  Holly  told  the  story 
then,  more  fully  than  he  had  told  it  before. 
He  brought  forward  the  letter,  too,  with  its 
mysterious  signature. 

"Perhaps  you  can  make  it  out,  son,"  he 
laughed.  "None  of  the  rest  of  us  can,  though 
I  have  n't  shown  it  to  anybody  now  for  a  long 
time.  I  got  discouraged  long  ago  of  anybody's 
ever  making  it  out." 

"Make  it  out  —  make  it  out!"  cried  John 
Holly  excitedly;  "I  should  say  I  could!  It's  a 
name  known  the  world  over.  It's  the  name  of 
one  of  the  greatest  violinists  that  ever  lived." 

"But  how  —  what  —  how  came  he  in  my 
barn?"  demanded  Simeon  Holly. 

"Easily  guessed,  from  the  letter,  and  from 
what  the  world  knows,"  returned  John,  his 
voice  still  shaking  with  excitement.  "He  was 
always  a  queer  chap,  they  say,  and  full  of  his 
notions.  Six  or  eight  years  ago  his  wife  died. 
They  say  he  worshiped  her,  and  for  weeks  re 
fused  even  to  touch  his  violin.  Then,  very  sud- 

3i8 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

denly,  he.  with  his  four-year-old  son,  disap 
peared —  dropped  quite  out  of  sight.  Some 
people  guessed  the  reason.  I  knew  a  man  who 
was  well  acquainted  with  him,  and  at  the  time 
of  the  disappearance  he  told  me  quite  a  lot 
about  him.  He  said  he  was  n't  a  bit  surprised 
at  what  had  happened.  That  already  half  a 
dozen  relatives  were  interfering  with  the  way 
he  wanted  to  bring  the  boy  up,  and  that  David 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  spoiled,  even  then,  with 
so  much  attention  and  flattery.  The  father  had 
determined  to  make  a  wonderful  artist  of  his 
son,  and  he  was  known  to  have  said  that  he 
believed  —  as  do  so  many  others  —  that  the 
first  dozen  years  of  a  child's  life  are  the  mak 
ing  of  the  man,  and  that  if  he  could  have 
the  boy  to  himself  that  long  he  would  risk  the 
rest .  So  it  seems  he  carried  out  his  notion  until 
he  was  taken  sick,  and  had  to  quit  —  poor 
chap!" 

"But  why  did  n't  he  tell  us  plainly  in  that 
note  who  he  was.  then?"  fumed  Simeon  Holly, 
in  manifest  irritation. 

"He  did,  he  thought'*  laughed  the  other. 
"He  signed  his  name,  and  he  supposed  that 
was  so  well  known  that  just  to  mention  it 

3ig 


JUST  DAVID 

would  be  enough.  That's  why  he  kept  it  so 
secret  while  he  was  living  on  the  mountain, 
you  see,  and  that's  why  even  David  himself 
did  n't  know  it.  Of  course,  if  anybody  found 
out  who  he  was,  that  ended  his  scheme,  and  he 
knew  it.  So  he  supposed  all  he  had  to  do  at 
the  last  was  to  sign  his  name  to  that  note,  and 
everybody  would  know  who  he  was,  and  David 
would  at  once  be  sent  to  his  own  people. 
(There's  an  aunt  and  some  cousins,  I  believe.) 
You  see  he  did  n't  reckon  on  nobody's  being 
able  to  read  his  name!  Besides,  being  so  ill,  he 
probably  was  n't  quite  sane,  anyway." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  nodded  Simeon  Holly,  frown 
ing  a  little.  "And  of  course  if  we  had  made  it 
out,  some  of  us  here  would  have  known  it, 
probably.  Now  that  you  call  it  to  mind  I  think 
I  have  heard  it  myself  in  days  gone  by  — 
though  such  names  mean  little  to  me.  But 
doubtless  somebody  would  have  known.  How 
ever,  that  is  all  past  and  gone  now." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  no  harm  done.  He  fell  into 
good  hands,  luckily.  You'll  soon  see  the  last 
of  him  now,  of  course." 

"Last  of  him?  Oh,  no,  I  shall  keep  David," 
said  Simeon  Holly,  with  decision. 

3ao 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

"Keep  him!  Why,  father,  you  forget  who 
he  is!  There  are  friends,  relatives,  an  adoring 
public,  and  a  mint  of  money  awaiting  that 
boy.  You  can't  keep  him.  You  could  never 
have  kept  him  this  long  if  this  little  town  of 
yours  had  n't  been  buried  in  this  forgotten 
valley  up  among  these  hills.  You'll  have  the 
whole  world  at  your  doors  the  minute  they  find 
out  he  is  here  —  hills  or  no  hills !  Besides,  there 
are  his  people;  they  have  some  claim." 

There  was  no  answer.  With  a  suddenly  old, 
drawn  look  on  his  face,  the  elder  man  had 
turned  away. 

Half  an  hour  later  Simeon  Holly  climbed  the 
stairs  to  David's  room,  and  as  gently  and 
plainly  as  he  could  told  the  boy  of  this  great, 
good  thing  that  had  come  to  him. 

David  was  amazed,  but  overjoyed.  That  he 
was  found  to  be  the  son  of  a  famous  man 
affected  him  not  at  all,  only  so  far  as  it  seemed 
to  set  his  father  right  in  other  eyes  —  in  David's 
own,  the  man  had  always  been  supreme.  But 
the  going  away  —  the  marvelous  going  away  — - 
filled  him  with  excited  wonder. 

"You  mean,  I  shall  go  away  and  study  — 
practice  —  learn  more  of  my  violin?" 

321 


JUST  DAVID 

"Yes,  David." 

"And  hear  beautiful  music  like  the  organ  in 
church,  only  more  —  bigger  —  better?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  know  people  —  dear  people —  who  will 
understand  what  I  say  when  I  play?" 

Simeon  Holly's  face  paled  a  little;  still,  he 
knew  David  had  not  meant  to  make  it  so 
hard. 

"Yes." 

"Why,  it's  my  '  start* — just  what  I  was  go 
ing  to  have  with  the  gold-pieces,"  cried  David 
joyously.  Then,  uttering  a  sharp  cry  of  con 
sternation,  he  clapped  his  fingers  to  his  lips. 

"Your  —  what?"  asked  the  man. 

"N  —  nothing,  really,  Mr.  Holly,  —  Uncle 
Simeon,  —  n  —  nothing." 

Something,  either  the  boy's  agitation,  or  the 
luckless  mention  of  the  gold-pieces  sent  a  sud 
den  dismayed  suspicion  into  Simeon  Holly's 
eyes. 

"Your  '  start '?  —  the  *  gold-pieces '?  David, 
\vhat  do  you  mean?" 

David  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  intend  to 
tell.  But  gently,  persistently,  Simeon  Holly 
questioned  until  the  whole  piteous  little  tale 

822 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD 

lay  bare  before  him:  the  hopes,  the  house  of 
dreams,  the  sacrifice. 

David  saw  then  what  it  means  when  a  strong 
man  is  shaken  by  an  emotion  that  has  mastered 
him;  and  the  sight  awed  and  frightened  the  bt*y. 

"Mr.  Holly,  is  it  because  I'm  —  going  — 
that  you  care  —  so  much?  I  never  thought  — 
or  supposed  —  you'd  —  care,"  he  faltered. 

There  was  no  answer.  Simeon  Holly's  eyes 
were  turned  quite  away. 

"Uncle  Simeon  —  please!  I  —  I  think  I 
don't  want  to  go,  anyway.  I  —  I  'm  sure  I 
don't  want  to  go  —  and  leave  you  I" 

Simeon  Holly  turned  then,  and  spoke. 

"Go?  Of  course  you'll  go,  David.  Do  you 
think  I'd  tie  you  here  to  me  —  now?"  he 
choked.  "What  don't  I  owe  to  you  —  home, 
son,  happiness!  Go?  —  of  course  you'll  go.  I 
wonder  if  you  really  think  I'd  let  you  stay! 
Come,  we'll  go  down  to  mother  and  tell  her.  I 
suspect  she'll  want  to  start  in  to-night  to  get  ' 
your  socks  all  mended  up!"  And  with  head' 
erect  and  a  determined  step,  Simeon  Holly 
faced  the  mighty  sacrifice  in  his  turn,  and  led 
the  way  downstairs. 


JUST  DAVID 

The  friends,  the  relatives,  the  adoring  public, 
the  mint  of  money  —  they  are  all  David's  now. 
But  once  each  year,  man  grown  though  he  is, 
he  picks  up  his  violin  and  journeys  to  a  little 
village  far  up  among  the  hills.  There  in  a  quiet 
kitchen  he  plays  to  an  old  man  and  an  old 
woman;  and  always  to  himself  he  says  that  he 
is  practicing  against  the  time  when,  his  violin 
at  his  chin  and  the  bow  drawn  across  the  strings, 
he  shall  go  to  meet  his  father  in  the  far-away 
land,  and  tell  him  of  the  beautiful  world  he 
has  left. 


TOE  END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


ftf  APR    ^  7  'Q 

W 


NQE-REKSWABUE 


NOV  2  3  1999 


DUE  2  WK   FROM  DATE  RECEIVED 


RSC-DYRL  DEC  09  "99 


A     «™'ii         ii 


